


Stronger

by q_dicted



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-07 19:52:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 41,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/q_dicted/pseuds/q_dicted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That which does not kill us...</p><p>Three years post 513. Brian and Justin found a way to make it work living in two different cities. Now it's time for Justin to come home as they begin the newest, most amazing chapter of their lives together. But in the blink of an eye they find themselves facing their worst nightmare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress. I am a slow writer -- there's no getting around that -- but I promise that it will be completed. For the first few parts the story moves back and forth in time - the location and time are at the beginning of each segment, and they get closer to each other in time over the course of the story until they catch up in Part 4.

_“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.”_

\-- Ernest Hemingway, _A Farewell to Arms._

 

Prologue Part 1  
  
 _New York City, May 2009_  
  
A late spring storm punishes the New York City skyline, distant flashes of lightning reflected a thousand fold in the rain-streaked windows that take up most of one wall of the birthing suite. The slashing rain and rolling thunder provide a fitting soundtrack to the drama unfolding around him.  
  
“Come on, you’re doing great!” He rubs the small of her back, grimacing as her fingernails burrow into the thin flesh of his wrist. “You’re doing great,” he repeats through clenched teeth, seeking assurance from the doctor seated at the foot of the delivery table. _Right? Is it supposed to be taking this long? What the fuck can I do?_  
  
The grin hidden behind the doctor's surgical mask crinkles the corners of her eyes, her slight nod of encouragement answering all his unspoken questions. His focus narrows, sounds reduced to white noise, the cheerful colors and serene decor fading into the background until all he can hear is his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.  
  
“Okay Abby, just one more. That’s it. Push now!” A muted scream erupts from the laboring woman’s throat, drowning out the doctor’s instructions as she bears down one last time.  
  
“Holy shit!” He hears the words from a distance, only vaguely aware that they are his own as a momentary hush falls over the room. Grasping the exhausted woman’s hand, he squeezes it hard, instinctively pressing it to his lips as the doctor suctions the tiny mouth and nose. She turns the baby in her hands, gently massaging its back. A lifetime ticks by with only the sound of the rain to mark its passing before the silence is broken by a small but mighty wail - quite possibly the most beautiful sound he has ever heard.  
  
“Oh my God,” he whispers, still in awe. _“Oh my God.”_ He blinks back tears as the doctor clamps off the umbilical cord and then offers him a pair of surgical scissors.  
  
“Do you want to cut it?”  
  
Nodding, he takes the instrument with slightly trembling fingers and tries to concentrate on what he’s been told: it doesn’t hurt the babe or the mom. _It doesn’t hurt, doesn’t hurt, doesn’t hurt._ He forces himself not to close his eyes, and barely breathing, makes the cut. The doctor nods her approval and hands the baby to the waiting nurse, who quickly takes vitals and measurements and gently wipes away some of the detritus of birth before wrapping the small, wriggling form in a warming blanket. She returns moments later, looking back and forth between the mother and the man at her side.  
  
“Go ahead.” Abby nudges him lightly when he hesitates, her voice tired but encouraging, “Take your daughter.”  
  
He moves forward and the nurse places the baby into his waiting arms. Dropping a soft kiss onto her forehead, he breathes in her sweet baby scent, certain he will remember the smell for the rest of his life. Gazing wondrously at his newborn daughter as the tears finally spill over, he murmurs a grateful thank you to the exhausted woman beside him. “She’s perfect.” One tear splashes onto her cheek, and he smiles as her tiny nose crinkles in protest. Her eyes blink open and she looks up at her father for the first time. Just a few minutes old, she is splotchy and red, with a shock of raven hair plastered to her head, but he sees only beauty in the promise of what she will become.  
  
“Well hello there, little one. Welcome to the world.”  
  
He cradles her gently, his heart swelling with love even as it aches for what is missing. His eyes leave her for just a moment as a long, low roll of thunder draws his attention to the storm raging outside. The thoughts come unbidden, as ephemeral as the lightning that flickers across the dusky sky. _This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. I need you. I can't do this alone._ The baby wriggles in his arms, one impossibly small hand stretching up to pat his chin, as if she knows he needs her touch. He smiles down at her as she fists her little fingers around his own large one, even manages a gentle laugh when she pulls it straight into her mouth and starts to suckle. Her eyes flutter closed and he nuzzles her tender cheek. “We’re going to love you so much, baby girl,” he says softly, gathering the tiny bundle to him. Turning toward the window again he adds a silent prayer to his whispered promise. _Please. Please let us have the chance._

* * *

1.  
  
 _New York City, September 2008_  
  
I’m really not sure who I’m more pissed at, him or me. I mean, I should know better. The sun rises in the east. Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly. Brian Kinney is an asshole. Somebody call the New York fucking Times. Yet still, after nearly eight years of dealing with the most emotionally retarded fucker on the planet, I have to admit, I didn’t see this one coming. Brian’s done a lot of fucked up things over the years, but the one thing I could always count on from him was the truth. Yeah, it took him five years and a large explosive device to finally get him to admit that he loves me, but we all know it wasn’t _me_ he was deceiving all that time. Even when I wanted him to, when it would have kept me from walking out the door, even when his truths cut me to the bone, Brian never lied to me. Not until today.  
  
Fucker.  
  
Him. I’m definitely more pissed at him. I need to be pissed, because the alternative is to curl up into a ball and cry. I stare at the cell phone in my hand – the screen is still lit. I seriously consider redialing. Calling him out. Demanding an explanation. Why, Brian? You made me believe this is what you wanted. For me. For _us._ What is your fucking damage?  
  
I shove the phone into my pocket and stalk around the small apartment, swearing when I nearly trip over a half-packed box of dishes. I sneer at the single votive candle flickering on the coffee table between two empty wine glasses, and curse some more as I toss the cushions back onto the sofa. I re-wrap the glasses, put them back in the box, and snuff out the candle, effectively erasing any signs of the celebration I was sure we’d be having right about now.  
  
I put the unopened Pinot Noir back into the scarred wooden sideboard that doubles as a liquor cabinet and see Brian’s nearly-full bottle of Jim Beam. I remember the night he showed up with it, spoiling for a fight and armed with his weapons of choice – a sharp tongue and eyes that could pin you in place with deadly precision when he was intent on winning. I can’t help smiling when I think about how that weekend ended, but it’s gone just as quickly when I hear his voice again in my head. _This was a mistake, Justin._ I pour myself a shot and swallow it in one gulp, gasping a little at the burn. I need a cigarette.  
  
As I head for the bedroom to find his stash, I pull out my phone again and redial, but end the call before it can connect. The rational part of my brain knows it would be useless. I guess that’s the part that makes sure I aim for the pillows instead of the wall when I launch the phone across the room. It skitters along the cool, raw silk of the goose-down duvet (the one Brian insisted I buy before he would fuck me on my ‘ridiculously small’ bed)  and I follow behind it, burying my face in the pillows to muffle the groan of frustration building in my gut. _Goddamnit._ He swore to me, _swore_ that he was good with it. That the idea of a kid, a baby, was not going to send him into panic mode. That the days of him deciding our future by shoving me off a fucking cliff were over.  
  
And I believed him. Even this morning, when the warning bells should have been deafening, I believed him.  
  
It’s funny because I hardly ever go to Midtown, and never that early in the morning. But Thomas needed someone to pick up the last piece for the Cantrell exhibit before the artist left town for the weekend and he certainly wasn’t going to drag _his_ ass through Friday morning rush hour to do it.  
  
And that’s how I found myself sitting in traffic, in a cab, on East 53rd at nine o’clock in the morning, wedged into the back seat with a crate roughly the size of my first apartment. I eyed it with disdain; not only was Jared Cantrell’s multi-media work overrated (my opinion only, of course), it was fucking heavy. I had turned to look out the window, more for the sake of _not_ looking at the atrocity beside me than any real interest in my surroundings, when I saw him climbing into a sleek, black Town Car. It was just the briefest of glimpses - a beautiful head of chestnut hair, a classic profile, broad shoulders accentuated by a washed leather jacket that was probably worth more than my entire wardrobe disappearing into the back of the limo. My eyes were drawn to him of their own volition, like some kind of primordial radar, its accuracy confirmed by the ping of pure energy that ran down my spine. The visceral thrill I feel whenever I see him again after any length of time apart. There is no mistaking Brian Kinney for any other man in the world.  
  
In the few seconds it took my brain to register anything beyond ‘what the fuck?’ the light changed and the cab eased through the intersection towards Lex, while his car waited to make the turn onto 3rd Avenue. I was half-way tempted to jump out of the cab and catch up to him on foot, and if not for the precious artwork I was accompanying, I might have. Shouting ‘follow that cab’ at the driver also crossed my mind, but the cliché alone kept me silent. Not to mention, _what the fuck?_  
  
Originally, I’d planned to go home this weekend, but after Abby called from the clinic on Wednesday with the news, I convinced him to come here instead. We needed to celebrate. Shit, I wanted to write it in giant letters across the sky. But first I wanted it to be just the two of us, and there was no way that would happen in Pittsburgh, not with both Deb and my mom around. They don’t even know we’re doing this yet, but those two are like fucking bloodhounds when it comes to Brian and me, and I don’t exactly have a poker face when I’m happy about something. I did everything but beg him to come early, make a long weekend of it. (Okay, maybe I begged a little, but it’s not like that didn’t happen routinely during our late-night, long-distance phone calls, only usually I was begging him to let _me_ come.) But he said he couldn’t get away and he’d see me Friday evening.  
  
Traffic was barely moving and I could still see his car, though the windows were tinted so dark I couldn’t see him inside. I dialed his cell and imagined I could hear it ring all the way across the grid-locked intersection. He mostly leaves it on vibrate during business hours but I swear he changes it to that retro-disco-porn ringtone on our weekends just to drive me insane. It was just about to kick over to voicemail when he picked up.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
“Hey.”  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
“It’s nine a.m.” Over the years I’ve learned that the most effective tool for getting Brian to talk is silence. And so I waited. The Town Car made its turn onto 3rd before he spoke again. “Was there something you wanted?”  
  
I smiled a little.  
  
“Uhhuh. What are you doing?” I practically heard his eyes rolling and he answered me like I was more than a little slow.  
  
“It’s nine o’clock in the morning, Justin. What do you imagine I’m doing?”  
  
So he wanted to play games. Okay. I glanced up at the driver. He appeared oblivious, but I slid the window in the plexi-glass divider closed anyway.  
  
“Hmmm. That depends, are you alone?” Brian and I have spent a lot of hours on the phone in the three years I’ve been in New York and the lion’s share of them have been on calls that started out with words just like those. If he wanted to mess with me by showing up early after telling me he couldn’t, I certainly wasn’t going to make it easy for him. Maybe his answer should have been enough for me to twig to the fact that all was not well in the great state of Being Brian Kinney, but I guess I was just too happy, too excited. Too confident. I guess I heard what I wanted to hear. Because that first lie didn’t faze me at all.  
  
“Unfortunately, no. I’m in a meeting,” he responded without hesitation. Damn, he’s good. It just made the game more interesting. I lowered my voice and purred into the phone.  
  
“Excuse yourself... tell them you have to use the bathroom, Brian. I have a little problem we need to take care of.” That at least earned me a little pause before he answered.  
  
“As tempting as your offer is, I’m afraid…”  
  
“Come on, I’ll be quick.” I interrupted, panting softly, “I’ll make it worth your while when you get here, I promise.” I all but moaned the words in his ear, no small feat considering it was taking all my self-control not to laugh out loud. The muted traffic noise filtered into my cab, but the more luxurious Town Car was quiet enough that I could hear the slight whistling sound he sometimes makes when he breathes through his nose. I knew I’d scored a point when it pitched a little higher, followed quickly by a sharp exhale. The limo was out of sight now, but I had no problem picturing exactly what he looked like up against the supple leather interior, slightly flushed and adjusting himself as he slid further back in his seat. “Do you want me to beg, Brian?”  
  
“Justin… I…” His voice was low, rougher than a moment ago. For one crazy second I was afraid he was going to call my bluff and I’m not entirely sure I wouldn’t have let him. Things have been a little tense the last couple weeks waiting for the news and our phone-sex life has suffered the consequences. I was a little too convincing for my own good, as evidenced by the growing tightness in my jeans, and this was fucking hot. But then he coughed lightly and the spell was broken. “I have to go. Later.”  
  
He disconnected before I could even form the word, but I said it out loud anyway. “Later.” Oh yes, Mr. Kinney. The cab ride back to the gallery took forty minutes and I used every one of them to plot the many ways I would make him pay for his little deception _later_. I even managed to forgive Cantrell his conceit as I hauled the enormous _objet d’art_ into the gallery. Sometimes bigger _is_ better, if only for concealing the state that my little fantasies had left me in.  
  
I spent an hour with Thomas getting the Cantrell set up and putting the finishing touches on the exhibit; to say I was distracted would be an understatement. The second time I nearly knocked over his pretentious new piece of crap, he sent me home.  
  
Thomas can be difficult at times. He’s owner of one the most prestigious galleries in New York. Demanding, bossy, flamboyant, and when things don’t go just exactly the way Thomas Headley decrees, the ultimate drama queen. I think of him as the gay man Debbie Novotny always wanted to be. But, like Debbie, he also has an enormous heart under all the bluster, and a soft spot for me. He’s one of the few people who knows about the baby – he’s been so good to me, I owed him the truth. He already knew why I had the weekend booked off, and while Thomas is genuinely fond of me, he adores Brian. I mean he fucking _adores_ him. This is a man who was at Stonewall, who knows what it means to be out and proud in a straight man’s world, and according to him, Brian Kinney is the epitome of everything a gay man should be. Unconventional, smart, ballsy. A big fat fucking success on his own terms. A walking wet dream. I swear if Thomas wasn’t pushing seventy and completely devoted to his partner of 30-plus years, I might actually worry about him.  
  
So when I explained what had me so… preoccupied (leaving out the details of the phone call – because, no) he waved me out the door with orders to make the most of my unexpected long weekend. He really is a good guy; I’m going to miss him.  
  
I walked the six blocks home from the gallery trying to figure out what Brian was up to. It’s not like his showing up without warning was unprecedented – I’d found him pounding on my door at two a.m. more than once over the years. One time, I forgot to put the security chain on the door and I woke up with a hand over my mouth and a warm, wet tongue in my ear. Fucker took ten years off my life!  
  
Anyway. 53rd  & 3rd isn’t exactly ‘on the way’ from LaGuardia to the East Village, and he was clearly getting _into_ that limo. I tried to summon a mental picture of the area, but all I could come up with was a vague impression of tall office buildings interspersed with minor retail – definitely not Brian’s style. There are a lot of pubs and bars, but even if they weren’t the kind of hetero-havens that Brian loathed (they are), it was nine o’clock in the morning. He has a few clients in the city, but he wasn’t dressed for business. I was no closer to an answer by the time I reached 7th Street and I decided it didn’t really matter. Knowing Brian, he was probably planning some ridiculously romantic gesture that he would deny any knowledge of later, or more likely, picking up some wicked new toy to celebrate with in the way we do best. That last idea had me sprinting the rest of the way down the block.  
  
It’s fifty-four steps up to my third floor apartment. I took them two at a time.  
  
I fumbled with the locks in my haste to get inside, but I knew he wasn’t there the moment I stepped through the door, and not just because the chain wasn’t latched. There’s a reason I came up with the name Kinnetik all those years ago - I feel Brian’s absence in a room every bit as strongly as I feel his presence.  
  
I didn’t mind all that much though; it gave me a chance to get things straightened up since I hadn’t been expecting him until late evening. I put away the art supplies that were scattered around the place and threw a drop cloth over the canvas I was working on – a piece I’d just started and wasn’t ready to share yet. I washed up the few dishes in the sink and put fresh linens on the bed, switching the plain white sheets for navy blue. The white ones were still clean, I just loved the way Brian looked sprawled naked against the richly colored, dark Egyptian cotton, all toned and tanned and perfect. Damn. I slid the lube and an extra handful of condoms under the pillow on his side of the bed just because, then spent a few more minutes setting out wine and glasses and re-arranging the sofa cushions onto the floor just in case we wanted to start the party there. On a whim, I grabbed a couple of candles from the cupboard and set them on the table as well. I was standing admiring my work and wondering if I should make us something to eat when it struck me that I was rapidly becoming a girl. Fucking hell.  
  
It was noon when I called him the first time. It went straight to voice mail so I hung up and decided to have a shower. I left the door unchained – sometimes it’s good to live a little dangerously – and stayed in until the water ran cold, but there was still no sign of Brian. Another hour passed before I pulled on a pair of sweats and uncovered my canvas again. By four o’clock I had to step away from the painting because it was taking on a decidedly dark mood  I never intended it to have. I called his cell again, ready to leave a message this time. I wasn’t prepared for a woman to answer the phone.  
  
“Brian Kinney’s office.”  
  
“Cynthia?”  
  
“Hello Justin.”  
  
 _“Cynthia?”_ I repeated her name because for the life of me I couldn’t seem to make anything else come out of my mouth. Once again, _what the fuck?_ was the best I could come up with. I checked the number on the screen, just to make sure I had dialed his cell. I did. Occasionally, Brian will give his private number to a client, but I tried to recall another time that Brian had forwarded his calls to his office. I couldn’t.  
  
“Yes, Justin. Brian asked me to take his calls for a few hours.”  
  
“A few hours?” I echoed her, as repetition seemed to be the only speech pattern I was capable of.  
  
“Yes. Did you want to leave a message?”  
  
“A message?” Christ, I had to stop doing that. “No, no message.” I should have just hung up then but my brain chose that moment to re-engage. “Where is he, Cynthia? I really need to speak to him.”  
  
“He’s meeting with a client. Left strict orders not to interrupt him unless someone was dead or dying, myself included. He said he’d switch the call forwarding back when he was finished. Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?” So... he'd embroiled Cynthia in his little game, the only question being, how far?  
  
“No, I guess I’ll see him in a few hours anyway. He’s on the 5:45?” _Liberty Air Flight 1027_ , non-stop from the Pitts to LaGuardia, arrival time 7:20 pm. I knew the schedule by heart. Since winning the account away from Vangard, Kinnetik had tripled Liberty’s market share in the northeast and earned Brian a Liberty Air employee card as a bonus, which meant unlimited free airfare anywhere the airline flew. Both his bank account and my ass had benefitted greatly as a result. Frequent flyer took on a whole new meaning for me. I heard the faint clicking of fingernails on a keyboard and then a short pause, and a distinct ‘huh’ before Cynthia came back on the line.  
  
“That’s odd,” she said, “he didn’t update his calendar, but I’m sure that’s right.”  
  
“He didn’t mention it before he left for his meeting?”  
  
“I’m sorry Justin, I haven’t actually seen Brian today. For a few days, in fact. He’s been working from home.”  
  
Well, fuck me. A frisson of apprehension ran down my spine and settled low in my gut as her words sank in. Cynthia is Brian's right hand - sometimes I think they are really two sides of the same coin. Most of the time, I just count myself lucky she's not a gay man. And Cynthia wasn’t in on it. Somehow, that worried me more than anything else, and for the first time since seeing him climb into that limo, I felt a glimmer of real concern. Still, I didn’t want to involve her any further until I knew what was going on, so I wished her a good weekend and she did the same, with a promise to have Brian call me if she heard from him before she left the office.  
  
After we hung up I just sat there for a few minutes trying to decide if I should start freaking out right then and there, or wait for an actual reason to. I mean beyond the vagaries of being Brian Kinney’s significant other. So far, all I really knew was that he hadn't been to the office in two days, he was in the city and hadn’t told his most trusted employee he was leaving town early. Strictly speaking, he wasn’t even ‘late’ yet, and I knew if I did anything foolish like, say, call Michael and ask if he knew what was Brian was up to, I would be risking the wrath of Kinney. Or, at the very least, a weekend of endless mockery when he found out. And there was no doubt he would find out. Michael and I are pretty good friends now; he’s like the big brother I never wanted. But he can’t keep his mouth shut to save his life, especially where Brian is concerned. So, no Michael.  
  
Google Earth briefly crossed my mind – just to see what was in the vicinity of Fifty-third and Third, of course. Fortunately, sanity prevailed and I squelched my inner stalker with a firm hand. Jesus Christ, I was making myself crazy based on nothing and I needed to stop. I felt a sharp pang in my stomach – hunger, not fear. I was starving.  
  
I glanced at the time. If Brian was going to keep up the pretense of arriving on schedule, then I had nearly four hours to kill and I knew he wouldn’t eat even if I waited for him to show – he never did. At 37, he was still as slender as the day I met him. If anything he was even thinner lately, yet he diligently maintained his ‘no carbs after seven pm’ rule. I, however, had no such qualms, before or after seven, and I never met a pizza I didn’t like. Gianelli’s on St. Mark’s has the best pie in the Village and not only do they deliver, Mama Gianelli knows my order without asking. Mr. Justin’s large pepperoni, light on the sauce and well done, would be at my door in thirty minutes, give or take. _‘You givea me grief, I takea two hours,’_ is Mama’s standing joke and she was still cackling in my ear as I hung up the phone.  
  
Resigned to waiting, I turned on the television for distraction, idly flipping through channels - something I normally enjoyed, if only for the entertainment value in guessing how long it would take Brian to lose his mind and snatch the remote away from me. I think his record was twelve minutes; somehow it wasn’t nearly as much fun alone. Less than half an hour later, the buzzer sounded and I found myself oddly disappointed when it turned out to be my pizza.  
  
I debated opening the wine to go along with my dinner, but couldn’t quite shake the feeling that I was going to want to be on my game when (at that point I was still thinking when, not if) Brian showed up. I ate in front of the television, but the pizza didn’t have its usual appeal and most of it went in the fridge, untouched. My frame of mind was nowhere near where it needed to be for working, so that was out. I tried passing the time packing some of the things I wouldn’t be needing for my last few weeks in the city, but even that seemed to require more concentration than I could muster as the time that Brian should have arrived came and went.  
  
The apartment grew dark but I didn’t bother with the lights. Instead, I lit one of the candles and sat there in the flickering candlelight, telling myself there was still no reason to imagine the worst. Christ, at that point I couldn’t even tell you what I thought ‘the worst’ might be. I mean, things are good. Really fucking good. Better than I ever dreamed they could be when I closed the loft door behind me three years ago.  
  
I didn't want to come to New York. The night we called off the wedding, Brian challenged me about what I really wanted, what I would do if it weren't for him. At first I was angry, hurt. Scared. I fought for five years to make him love me the way I thought he should, only to find out I had no fucking idea what that really meant. Not until that moment, when I saw just how much he loved me - enough to let me go. And that? Was fucking terrifying. But as much as I hate to admit it, he was right - it was what we both needed.  
  
Not that things weren't a little shaky at first. Let's face it - our relationship skills aren't exactly ideal when we're standing right in front of each other, never mind four hundred miles apart. Brian did his thing where he tried to convince me to move on, forget Pittsburgh. Forget him. Christ, and they say _I'm_ the one with brain damage. Only this time, I had the ultimate weapon to battle Brian's demons - his own words. We did not go through everything we did just to sacrifice it to a little bit of time and distance. It's amazing how easy it is to fight Brian when he doesn't really want to win.  
  
Slowly but surely I’ve gained some recognition for my work, largely thanks to Thomas and his incredible support. Living here, working in the gallery, being a part of the whole culture - I think it's made me a better artist. I know it's made me a stronger person. Strong enough to know, finally, that I'm not settling for a life with Brian. I'm choosing it.  
  
As for Brian, well, he's more successful than ever. Kinnetik - shit - it's one of the most elite boutique agencies in the whole country and Brian drives it just like he does everything else, hard and fast, and with no margin for error. It's no secret he can be a Class A prick at times, but he never asks more from his people than he's willing to give himself. As a result, they've got a shelf full of industry awards and a client list any Madison Avenue firm would kill for. Kinnetik has made Brian a very rich man.  
  
And then there's Babylon. Re-opening the club was something that Brian struggled with. He likes to cultivate this image of cold-hearted cynicism, and no one would argue that he achieves that goal pretty fucking well. But that's what it is - an image, a facade. The truth is, knowing so many people died in his personal playground, nearly losing his best friend, it hit him hard. Sometimes I don't think any of us really understood just how hard - his brief stint as a pod-person notwithstanding. I know he had every intention of following through on his promise to sell it, because my mom had the listing. And then, in a rare burst of sagacity (not to say hypocrisy), Michael convinced Brian that he should resurrect Babylon. Do it for himself, do it for them, show the fuckers that they didn't win. Let the thumpa-thumpa play on, forever. Christ.  
  
So Babylon has reclaimed its rightful place as the Mecca of gay Pittsburgh. It's more of an investment and less of a lifestyle for him these days, but Brian is still Brian. He will always have a large streak of the hedonist in him, and frankly, I wouldn’t want him any other way.  
  
Babylon wasn't the only thing to rise from the ashes of the bombing. In the midst of the ensuing media circus, a reporter doing background for an article on _'ground zero in the deadliest hate crime in the state’s history'_ , connected the club’s owner with the hero of an underground gay comic book. The fact that its creators were not only victims of the bombing themselves, but the young lover and best friend of the entrepreneur, was just too good an angle to resist. The story gained national attention, and interest in _Rage_ , well, it exploded, so to speak. Back issues started going for big bucks on eBay, demand for new issues went viral, and suddenly publishers that wouldn’t even return our calls before were offering us ridiculous amounts of money for the rights to our gay crusader.  
  
Neither Michael nor I were interested in taking _Rage_ mainstream. After the Brett Keller debacle we figured it would take about as long as the next news cycle for them to get scared and try to neuter _Rage_ again. But then we were approached by a smaller publishing house that was willing to produce the comic on our terms, to promote it for what it was. Hard-ass, edgy. Queer. We were both uncomfortable with the idea of profiting from the publicity surrounding such a horrific crime, but you have to admit the paradox was pretty fucking sweet. An unapologetically graphic comic about a gay superhero made famous by the hate-filled actions of those who would see it banned from existence. Rage’s debut issue for Inception Comics sold more copies than all our prior issues combined. We dedicated it to the victims of the bombing and donated the profits to a fund started in their name to help assist the families. Issue #14 goes to press in a couple weeks and there has even been some talk about an animated series down the road. We’re probably never going to retire off it, but _Rage, Gay Crusader_ , is still making the world safe for gay boys everywhere, and Michael and I? We’re pretty fucking proud.  
  
If there’s any shadow at all in our lives, it’s Gus. Well not Gus exactly – he’s amazing. At eight years old, he's tall for his age, does well in school and is already showing signs of being a really great young athlete. Brian tried everything to steer him towards soccer, but his passion is baseball. Their house is about two miles from the stadium where the Blue Jays play, but he lives and breathes the Yankees, and he’s the star of his Little League team. Brian nearly swallowed his tongue when Gus stood up at Thanksgiving dinner last year and loudly proclaimed himself a catcher, not a pitcher. I bet Brian still has a bruise on his shin from where Mel kicked him under the table the instant he opened his mouth to speak. But Brian only told Gus how the catcher was the most important member of the team, the leader, and how proud he was of him. He really loves that kid - and that’s the problem - he’s missing out on most of his life. Gus spent the first three weeks of summer vacation with us this year and I know how it guts Brian to watch him leave again.  
  
Nobody is going to believe it, but this whole thing – the baby, the surrogate, all of it was Brian’s idea.  
  
Three weeks worth of curtailed sexual activity (which in Brian’s world means anything less than fucking in any given place, at any given moment) found us lying naked on the floor in front of the fireplace that night after Gus left for Toronto. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was lack of blood to the brain, given what we’d just done. Maybe it was the joint we were passing back and forth as I lay there with my head resting on his stomach, who the hell knows? But I heard myself saying how empty the house seemed without Gus. Considering that the last week of his visit also included J.R., the munchers, and most of our extended family at one time or another, Brian’s muttered response about relocating with no forwarding address before the next visit was about what you’d expect. It was a familiar game for us – he pretended to be a heartless shit, I pretended to believe him. Watching him watch his son pack up his things to go home told me all I needed to know.  
  
“I miss him already,” I said, and stretched out beside him, tracing lazy circles on his chest with my fingertip. His response was to roll me onto my back and shot-gun the last hit off the joint directly into my parted lips. He lingered there, kissing me deeply while I held the pungent smoke deep in my lungs, then pulled back just enough to let me exhale. Christ! My whole body buzzed, the effect so intense I think my brain short-circuited, because the next thing out of my mouth was, “I want one.”  
  
I swear to God, I don’t know where that came from, but the second I said it, it just seemed the best fucking idea I ever had. Maybe I'd have been more convincing if I weren’t giggling like a teenage girl. “We should totally have a kid of our own.”  
  
That earned me an arched eyebrow and the look of pained amusement he usually reserves for occasions when my inner princess is having a moment, and then he silenced me with his tongue down my throat. But I was undeterred (and very, _very_ stoned) and the second his lips slid off mine and began mapping their journey southward, I continued. “I mean it, Brian! I bet Daphne would probably help us out,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him, “You know she’s always had kind of a thing for you.”  
  
If not for the muffled laugh I felt tickle the crease of my thigh, I would have thought he didn’t even hear me. “Briaann…” I pawed at his shoulder to get his attention and then he did that thing he does with his tongue and I said his name again, but it had nothing to do with wanting to talk. We spent the rest of the night getting reacquainted with most of the flat surfaces in the house. I considered the discussion closed, Kinney style.  
  
He was already up and dressed when I woke up the next morning, sitting at the table with coffee in hand and his laptop open in front of him. I felt his eyes on me as I moved around the kitchen and turned to find him watching me over the rim of his coffee cup.  
  
“What?” He was studying me like some new species of bug and it was starting to freak me out. _“What?”_  
  
“Were you serious?” They were the first words he’d uttered since I walked into the room.  
  
“About what?”  
  
“A kid. Is that something you want?”  
  
“Why, did you find one on Craig’s List?” I laughed and leaned over his shoulder, sure he was fucking with me. A little payback for my drug-induced confession. He closed the laptop and pulled me around onto his lap, pinning me there with the patented Kinney stare.  
  
“Is it?”  
  
Holy shit! He was serious and I had absolutely no idea how to respond. Of course it was something I wanted. A home and a family with Brian has been part of my dreams since I was seventeen years old for fuck's sake. But I knew going into this thing with Brian that it was probably not in the cards. As much as he loves Gus, I never thought he would even consider having another child. It seemed so far out of reach I honestly didn’t let myself think about it much, occasions when I was stoned out of my mind notwithstanding.  
  
“I won’t do it again,” he said finally, and I let out the breath I’d been holding. Of course he was fucking with me. Shit. But then he went on in a tone of voice I barely recognized, one I hadn't heard since we stood in each other’s arms in front of a bombed-out nightclub. “I won’t share another kid, Justin. I can’t. If we do this, it can’t be with someone we know.” And then he opened up his laptop again and showed me what he’d been looking at.  
  
That was not-quite three months ago.  
  
The amount of red-tape involved in surrogacy is incredible, but there are few things in the world more formidable than Brian Kinney on a mission. He moved us through the process of finding an agency willing to work with two gay men and clearing the legal hurdles involved, all with remarkably little bloodshed. Choosing an egg donor was fairly straightforward, but it took us another month to find Abby. Once we did though, things started to happen quickly. She began the treatments right away, we made our ‘contributions’, and two weeks ago, Abby had the procedure. And then we waited.  
  
The doctor warned us to keep our expectations in check, that there was no guarantee of success on the first try (or ever, in fact). They told us it would be ten to fourteen days before they could confirm pregnancy – two weeks of jumping every time the phone rang and driving myself (and Brian) insane surfing the medical websites, reading about all the things that could go wrong. It’s probably a good thing Brian and I were in different cities; his threats to smother me in my sleep are far less effective over the phone. He’s been seriously fucking amazing through all of this, so I chalked his occasional dark mood over the last couple weeks up to stress and the standard Kinney stoicism that is his stock in trade.  
  
Now I wondered if maybe I had just been too wrapped up in my own excitement to hear what he’d really been saying. But he’d been genuinely happy when I called him with the news. I _know_ he was.  
  
The flickering candle flared brightly for an instant and then winked out. And wasn’t that just the fucking saddest little metaphor ever? I laughed out loud and tried not to notice the tremor in my hand while I was lighting the second one.  
  
I needed a drink, with or without him, but before I could open the bottle of wine, I felt my cell vibrating in my pocket. It was a text from Brian. A text? He wouldn’t.  
  
 _Won’t be able to make it this weekend. Talk later. B._  
  
Oh, no fucking way. I dialed his number, not at all surprised to get his voice mail.  
  
“Call me, Brian. Now.”  
  
I waited a couple minutes and then texted the same message.  
  
Ten minutes after that, I texted him again. _Answer your phone, Brian, or so help me God I will fucking hunt you down._  
  
I gave him two more minutes and then dialed his number again. His voicemail takes five rings to kick in. He answered on the fourth.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
“Hey.” I heard the familiar whistle of his deviated septum only tonight it was louder, more pronounced, the sound it made when he was high on something. Something that went up his nose. Jesus. “What’s going on, Brian? Where are you?”  
  
“What is, _‘Things that are none of your business?'_ ” He spoke carefully, enunciating every syllable, using that forced, sing-song voice that meant he was really, seriously fucked up. “Did I win? What’s my prize, Alex?”  
  
“Quit screwing around. Where are you?”  
  
“I’m in heaven, Sunshine. Homo fucking heaven.” He grunted that last word like it was a curse. I could hear music in the background but it didn’t sound like he was in a club. Outside one maybe, like in an alleyway. Or in a back room. I thought I heard another voice, too. Male, laughing, muffled, like maybe it had a mouthful of something. Motherfucker.  
  
“What are you doing, Brian?” I hated the way I sounded, but I couldn’t help it. “We’re supposed to be celebrating. You’re supposed to be _here._ ”  
  
“Sorry… Sorry’s _bullshit._ Isn’t that right?”  
  
“Brian...”  
  
“No apologies, no regrets. Words to live by, aren’t they? I am the fucking philosopher _king._ Or maybe I fucked the philosopher king. It's so hard to keep track of these things.” The cold, mirthless laugh that followed sent a shiver down my spine.  
  
“Please don’t do this.”  
  
It got really quiet then. Too quiet. I began to wonder if maybe he had nodded out. He hadn’t, but the cadence was gone from his voice. He just sounded wasted.  
  
“This was a mistake, Justin. A huge fucking mistake."  
  
“Brian, I...” I searched for something to say to that, but it didn’t matter.  
  
He was already gone.  
  
*  *  *  
  
So now here I am, alone and wondering how I could have been so stupid as to not see it coming. The more I think about it, the angrier I get and I don’t know what to do with it. I want to scream or cry or throw something, but I’m afraid if I start I’ll never stop. He’s scared, I know he is. Fuck, so am I - having a kid, making this commitment, is a scary fucking proposition. But we’re supposed to be in this together. He fucking _promised_ me and now that it’s real, the first thing he does is go off on the mother of all benders? Part of me wants to go and find him, talk him down; a bigger part wants to kick the shit out of him. I grab the pack of cigarettes and climb out onto the fire escape for some air.  
  
The days are still pretty warm for September, but the night air is damp, touched with the chill of an early fall that seeps into my bones as I sit on the cold, metal steps. I don’t smoke much anymore unless Brian is around and the first hit of nicotine makes me a little light-headed. By the time I realize I’m sitting here shivering, I’ve gone through half the pack and most of my thumbnail. It’s not quite dawn, but the sky is already more blue than black.  
  
Back inside, I’m too wired to sleep, but I’m fucking freezing so I crawl under the duvet. My phone is still wedged halfway under the pillow and I can see the message light blinking. Shit. One missed call. From Brian. I almost delete it without listening but fuck me, I can’t. It’s only three words and I have to replay it twice to hear them.  
  
 _“Open the door.”_ The message is nearly an hour old. There is not enough _what the fuck_ in the world.  
  
Logic says he has to be long gone by now, but it’s far too late for rational thinking, so I wrap myself in the duvet and go to the door. Something’s blocking the peephole and I can’t see a fucking thing; I slide the chain off and unlock it anyway. At this point a crazed serial killer bursting through the door would be the least surreal part of my evening. I feel the brunt of his weight against it when I turn the handle and even though I’m tempted to let him fall on his ass, I ease it open. The fucker has the gall to _smile_ as he stumbles by me into the apartment, as wasted as I’ve ever seen him. And that’s saying something.  
  
His keys are still dangling from the handle - I guess that security chain is good for something after all - though why he didn’t just pound on the door until I answered it is beyond me. It’s not like _that’s_ never happened before. I snatch the keys out of the lock and toss them aside, close the door quietly and take several deep breaths before I turn around. He’s just standing there, swaying, as though he’s not quite sure how he got there.  
  
I move slowly towards him, ready to explode, chew him a new asshole, until I get my first real look at his face. He’s still wearing that demented smile but now I realize that his cheeks are wet. His eyes glisten in the half light. He’s fucking crying. I have never seen Brian cry, not ever. But there’s nothing else there – no anger, no joy, no fight. Behind the sheen of tears, his eyes are dull and vacant.  
  
“What’s wrong?” I ask when I can find my voice again.  
  
He shakes his head so slightly I would miss it if not for the utter stillness of everything else around us. I take a step closer and he takes one back, and that awful smile finally falters. Suddenly I’m not angry any more. I’m flat out fucking scared.  
  
“Whatever it is, it’ll be okay,” I say, but that's not really true. If he’s changed his mind about the baby, if he’s changed his mind about us... it won’t be okay. I won’t be okay. But I have to know. “Talk to me, Brian. Tell me what’s wrong.”  
  
“Nothing’s wrong, sonny boy,” he says, his voice full of smoke and bourbon. The duvet falls to the floor as I step toward him again, only this time he doesn’t move away and I grasp him by the upper arms and squeeze until he finally looks down at me. Those beautiful hazel eyes have made me feel a lot of things over the years, but never the cold fear that is turning my knees to jelly. I want him to stop right there, want to throw my hand over his mouth, because somehow I know whatever he says next is going to break me. My head shakes no, no. No. But he goes ahead and says it anyway. Because, after all, I asked him to.  
  
“Everything’s fucking perfect. I am fabuloso, señor.”  
  
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.  
  
*  *  *


	2. Part 2

Prologue, Part 2  
  
 _New York City, May 2009_  
  
A late spring storm punishes the New York City skyline, distant flashes of lightning reflected a thousand fold in the rain-streaked window, its glass rendered nearly opaque in the gathering darkness. He stands before it, mesmerized by the splashes of color bleeding into muted shades of silver and white. An abstract reflection of the reality that surrounds him, like a fun-house mirror, surreal, yet strangely beautiful. _Like one of his paintings_ , he thinks, and the idea almost makes him smile. Except there is something... wrong with the image, and it forces the smile from his lips before it can even form.  
  
The illusion fades as he moves nearer the window, replaced by the bleak, monochrome cityscape. He doesn’t flinch when a streak of lightning splits the sky, merely counts the beats before the thunderclap follows. Closer now. The storm doesn’t frighten him – in fact, it beckons.  
  
On the sidewalk below, people rush along with heads bowed, coat collars turned up against the driving rain. Some huddle in doorways and under awnings, waiting in vain for a lull in the storm, or for that most elusive of New York City marvels: a taxi in the rain. He envies them. Envies and loathes them. He doesn’t believe in god or the devil, heaven or hell, but if he did he would gladly sell his soul to be where those people are. Out there, with the wind and rain washing over him, free of... this place. He can’t remember the last time he felt good in his skin, and he wants to. He really fucking wants to. His chest tightens, hands clenching at his sides.  
  
Motherfuckers. He wants to scream at them, make them see. He wants to pound his fists on the glass until it shatters into a million pieces. He wants to... scream. Instead, he presses his forehead to the cold, smooth glass. It won’t open. It isn’t meant to. And yet he is not surprised when he slaps his palms against it only to have it dissolve at his touch, flooding the room with noise. So much noise. Wind and rain and thunder. Running and shouting and alarms. He doesn’t care. The rain is hard enough to sting and in seconds he is soaked to the skin, and he doesn’t care. Instead, he turns his face up to the sky. For the first time in what feels like forever, he can breathe.  
  
There are other sounds, too - sounds he shouldn’t be able to hear over the storm, still they are exquisitely clear to him. The whisper of the sliding door; the padding of the nurse’s footfalls on the seamless terrazzo floor; the highly unprofessional, but completely justifiable curse she utters under her breath as she approaches her patient. Urgent demands that he listen, hang on, fight.  
  
He doesn’t. Won’t. Can’t. They promised, no more. No fucking more.  
  
But there is another voice. Further away, yet somehow all around him, as though carried in on the wind that buffets his thin hospital gown. Impossibly soft, but unmistakable. He closes his mind to it, pushes it away. Resists. Because they promised. Because he’s tired. But there is no shutting out the simple truth of the words. _This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. I need you. I can’t do this alone._  
  
2.  
  
 _Pittsburgh - August, 2008_  
  
I can’t believe the things I let this little shit talk me into. Three days. I haven’t voluntarily gone three days without getting off since I was thirteen years old. My only consolation as I watch him in the mirror is that he’s suffering at least as much as I am, if the rather impressive woody he’s sporting is any indication. I finish shaving and splash my face with water a little colder than is absolutely necessary before grabbing a towel from the warmer to pat it dry. He’s careful not to meet my eyes as he steps out of the shower, naked and dripping wet, and I swallow a sound that is definitely not a moan as he shakes the water from his hair and runs his hands down the length of his chest. Fuck me.  
  
I toss my towel around his shoulders and use it to pull him to me, steadying him with one hand on his hip while I dry his arms and chest with the other. His skin is hot and moist, scented with the spicy citrus of his body wash, and Christ, he tastes good enough to eat as I lick the droplets of water gathered in the hollow of his collarbone. I slide my tongue up his neck and along his jaw, slowly working my way to his mouth. My fingers graze his stomach as my tongue traces his lips and he actually _whimpers_ when I rub the soft terry cloth between his legs.  
  
“Brian...” he protests, but his tongue betrays him, slipping out to meet mine. The towel falls away as I cup him with my bare hand and he pulls back, glaring at me with what I’m going to say is lust in his eyes. It might be murder though. “Cut it out!” He snatches the towel up off the floor and covers himself like a Victorian bride.  
  
“I’m afraid it’s a little too late to play the bashful virgin, Sunshine.” I reach for him again, but he slaps my hand away.  
  
“It’s only a couple more hours, Brian. It’s not going to kill us,” he says, backing away from me and into the bedroom.  
  
Matching him step for step, I walk him backwards across the room until he bumps into the bed and sits down hard. It’s almost comical how desperate he looks; he wants it as much as I do. I push my fingers into his damp hair and rub my thumbs lightly over his lips, leaning down to whisper against them. “You sure about that?” He makes that little sound in his throat again and I kiss him, but softly.  
  
Really, I’m just fucking with him for sport at this point. I didn’t go through three days of hell just to blow it at the eleventh hour, so to speak. The instructions were clear: no ejaculation for at least 72 hours prior to the main event. Our appointment at the fertility clinic is in an hour – today is the day we make ourselves a baby. Holy fuck. It’s bad enough I can even think those words and not run screaming from the room.  The fact I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling at the thought is not even up for discussion. Like I said – the shit I let him talk me into.  
  
“Come on then.” I release him with an exaggerated sigh, “Maybe if you’re a good boy, I’ll let you blow me in the exam room.”  
  
* * *  
  
As it happens, getting off at the clinic is, well, clinical. Anti-climactic even. Yeah, I said it. Turns out that even for us, there is just something a little too weird about delivering the goods that will result in little Johnny or Jane with him bent over a desk and screaming my name, so we take care of business the old fashioned way. After three days of abstinence, it seems like I barely get his pants unzipped before he’s reaching for the container, and to my chagrin, I’m not far behind him. Christ, I can’t remember ever coming so hard from a fucking hand job. The little pang of regret I feel as I watch him pull his pants up over that perfect ass of his is eased by the knowledge that it will be well tended to before I put him back on the plane to New York.  
  
He gives this shaky little smile as he presses the button to let the tech know we’re finished, and he’s strangely quiet when she comes in to collect the samples. She tells us we’re free to leave whenever we’re ready. For all intents and purposes, our part in this is done, at least for the next few days until our little science project is ready to be implanted. Technically, they don’t need us for that, but Abby, our surrogate, agreed to let us be there when she has the procedure. Justin agreed to blow me on demand for the next nine months to convince _me_ to be there. Seems only fair.  
  
As the tech leaves, Justin’s eyes mist over. He turns away quickly, developing a sudden, profound interest in the department store painting on the wall, studying it like it was an undiscovered Monet. Like he hasn’t just done something that will change the course of his life. Like he isn’t trying desperately to be nonchalant about this because he thinks I’ll freak out if he makes too big a deal of it. Little twat.  
  
Not that I can blame him, really. There was a time when the mere suggestion of a commitment like this would have had me searching for the nearest cliff. Nobody knows that better than Justin. Shit, I let him walk out of my life over far less. Twice. And now we’re about to become parents together. It’s no fucking wonder he’s nervous. The only real surprise here is, I’m not.  
  
I probably should be.  
  
Christ, growing up in my family would put any sane person off the idea of reproducing. An abusive bully of a father. A self-proclaimed martyr for a mother. Neither of them above blaming the state of their pathetic, wasted lives on a child they wished was never born. In my experience, the American Dream was a fucking nightmare, an illusion the god-fearing, sanctimonious heteros were more than welcome to keep to themselves. It would be easy to lay my... aversion to the concept of family at their feet.  
  
But the truth is, until Lindsay asked me, I never even thought about having a child. It wasn’t about my shitty childhood, or even about being gay. It was about priorities and mine were my career, my cock, my lifestyle and my friends, and generally speaking, in that order. I had a pretty specific blueprint for my life and being a father was not part of the plan. Call me a self-centered prick if you want, but hedonism is not a dirty word when you are honest about it and I never once pretended otherwise. Honestly, I don’t even remember how she convinced me to do it, only that copious amounts of pot and flattery were involved. She asked and I obliged, with the understanding that this was their kid and I was just the sperm donor. Available for un-credited cameo appearances and the occasional cash infusion and no more. Perhaps not the stuff bedtime stories are made of, but that’s how it was.  
  
And while my so-called friends were willing to accept, even _expect_ the bare minimum from me, Justin always demanded more. More than anyone else ever has. He didn’t just condemn me out of hand or blindly accept my bullshit – he supported me, but he also challenged me. I’m not saying he is the only reason that I finally opened myself up to the idea of being Gus’s father, but his unshakeable belief that I belonged in my kid’s life no matter what was hard to ignore.  
  
I mean, I’ve always loved Gus - contrary to popular belief, I’m not a fucking robot. It’s the oldest cliché in the world, but the instant Lindsay handed him to me, I felt it. That...connection. I’m not sure I would have called it love then – abject fucking terror would probably be more accurate. She put this kid in my arms and suddenly being a father wasn’t a detail on a birth certificate, or some abstract concept. It was reality in the form of a six pound, seven ounce, living, breathing time clock, and my carefully constructed world tilted ever so slightly.  
  
Some would say just shifted back to where it was meant to be all along. There was a time I would have called bullshit on that. I don’t believe in providence, and fate has never really been my friend – but both Gus and Justin came into my life that night, so who the hell knows? I know I never expected they would become the two most important people in my life. But then a shitload of things have happened that I never saw coming, and most of them begin and end with the blond standing beside me.

  
And now here we are. If you asked Justin, he’d tell you this was all my idea and strictly speaking, that’s the truth. He’d probably also tell you his wanting a family was something new, his ‘suggestion’ we should have one of our own some brilliant revelation brought on by great weed and even better sex. That, not to put too fine a point on it, _is_ bullshit. In one way or another, he’s been telling me since the day we met.  
  
I slip behind him and slide my arms around his waist, settling my chin on his shoulder. He’s practically vibrating with tension as I pull him closer and press a kiss to his ear. “Hey,” is as far as I get before his breath hitches and I feel his throat constricting against my cheek. He swallows compulsively, and I know he’s about three seconds away from melting down. I turn him around and take his face in my hands; maybe I still can’t always say the shit he needs to hear, but I can show him.  
  
* * *  
  
Ten minutes later we’re in the car again and Justin is exacting his revenge for torturing him earlier. I head for the loft, partly because it’s closer to the office and I still have to put in an appearance there today, but mostly because he’s got his head in my lap and he’s mouthing my cock through my jeans. If I had to make it all the way to the house before I fuck him, I would probably drive us off a bridge.  
  
It starts in the elevator with his legs wrapped around my waist and his tongue down my throat. By the time we actually make it into the loft, my shirt is off and he’s biting at my lips hard enough to leave marks. I’m quite willing to carry him all the way to the bedroom but he’s on his knees and tugging at my belt the second I slide the door shut behind us. I try to pull him back up -- I want inside his tight little ass -- but he slaps my hands away, yanking down my jeans and mumbling something about the first installment on his payment plan. I open my mouth to object and _oh, oh fuck... ah fuck, yes_... I lean back against the cold steel door and decide this is definitely one of the better deals I ever made. The kid is an artist in more ways than one.  
  
Eventually we make it into the bedroom and I’m finally inside him. Don’t think for a moment his motives for blowing me the minute we got in the door were entirely selfless. Our Sunshine is a pragmatic little fucker. He knows taking the edge off for me will result in the slow, sensual fuck he wants, face to face, the way he craves it when he’s feeling like this. I give him what he wants, and then I roll him over and give him what he needs – hard, fast, deep. He folds his arms under his head and comes to his knees, giving him the leverage he needs to push back, matching me stroke for stroke. I run my hands up and down his back, hold his hip with one, slide the other underneath him and let him rock into my fist in time with my thrusts, until he’s chanting my name and pulling at his hair and coming so hard I think he might have passed out for a second or two. I’m only seconds behind him, and Christ, he takes my breath away.  
  
We collapse onto the bed and it’s all I can do to get the condom off and toss it somewhere in the direction of the waste basket as I roll onto my back, gasping like I’ve just run a fucking marathon. Justin moves with me, quite possibly has no choice since we’re both sticky and drenched in sweat, and he’s panting softly as he turns to face me. He throws one leg over mine and stretches out alongside me, pressing a wet kiss to my chest before he lays his head against it.  
  
“Out of shape, old man?” he laughs wickedly, splaying his fingers over my pounding heart.  
  
His words might have a little more sting if I hadn’t just come for the third time since we walked through the door. Or if I couldn’t feel _his_ heart beating like a trip hammer against my ribs. Still, _old man?_ I grab a fistful of his hair and tug his head back until I can see his face.  
  
“Careful now, or I might just have to show you some of the tricks I’ve learned at my advanced age.” I reach down and slap his firm, round ass hard enough to remind him just how much he loves benefiting from my experience. He yelps in protest when I do it again, but even soft and spent, his dick twitches against my thigh in appreciation. I bring my hand back up to join the other one in his hair and use them to fit his mouth to mine, kissing him until he’s as breathless as I am and I feel the beginnings of my own erection stirring again. His eyes go wide as I pull him on top of me and he feels me pressing into his belly.  
  
“What’s the matter, sonny boy?”  I smirk as he rolls off me and shimmies away. “Can’t keep up with the _old man_?”  
  
“You’re not human,” he says darkly, eyeing my semi-hard cock with suspicion. I try my best to look duly offended.  
  
“Out of shape, my ass.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s not _your_ ass I’m worried about,” he says, scooting a little further down the bed. “Keep that thing away from me!”  
  
“Uhhuh.” I shrug, sitting up and reaching for a cigarette. I light one and inhale deeply, sending a long stream of smoke in his direction before adding, “Remember that next time you question my physical prowess.” He crawls back over and grabs it from my hand, laughing as he takes a drag and lays back down beside me.  
  
“Freak.”  
  
“Amateur.”  
  
I retrieve my cigarette and throw my arm around his shoulders, pulling him back to me while I finish the smoke in comfortable silence. I’m fairly certain he’s fallen asleep and I’m debating getting up and going in to the office for a couple of hours when I feel his arm slide across my stomach and tighten around me. He’s peppering my chest with soft, dry kisses, his silky blond hair tickling a trail behind them, and goddamn if it doesn’t go straight to my dick. I’m about ready to flip him over for another round when I hear his voice, barely a whisper and warm against my skin.  
  
“I love you, Brian.”  
  
He doesn’t stop, or even look up; I’m not sure he even meant for me to hear that. I _know_ he doesn’t expect me to respond, which is just one of the reasons that every once in a while, I can. I stroke his hair and leave my hand where it comes to rest at the back of his neck, and answer him just as quietly. “Me too.”  
  
Fuck it. I didn’t really want to go to work today anyway.  
  
* * *  
  
This time he really is passed out. I know this because I run the tip of my index finger down the pale expanse of skin from just under his arm to the curve of his hip, and there’s nothing. No squirming, no gasping, no _fuck off, Brian_. Justin is the most ticklish person on the planet and his sides are his weak spot. He’s on his back, one arm flung to the side and the other folded across his eyes, pretty much exactly where he’d landed after that last orgasm, but he doesn’t so much as twitch when I retrace my path back up along his ribs, so yeah, he’s dead to the world.  
  
What I’m less sure of is why _I’m_ still conscious after we’ve spent the better part of a day fucking ourselves into oblivion. I’d rather cut off my one good ball than admit it, but he wore me out. I have to piss so bad my bladder’s about to explode and I’m too exhausted to haul my ass to the bathroom. Fuck me. _Welcome to your future, Mr. Kinney. Will you be checking any baggage today?_ Then again, I’m awake and my brain is still functioning, unlike the twink lying comatose at my side. There is that. But I really, _really_ have to piss.  
  
He’s got one leg hooked over mine, so I’m careful as I ease out from under him and slide off the bed. I close the bathroom door behind me so as not to wake him, but I needn’t have bothered – when I come back out he’s rolled up in the duvet and drooling on _my_ fucking pillow. Twat. I pick up my jeans and my cigarettes and leave him to his dreams.  
  
My laptop is open on my desk; a glance at the screen on my way to the refrigerator for a Pellegrino makes me want to turn right back around again. Cynthia was less than impressed when I called to inform her I wouldn’t be in after all. You’d think after nearly ten years she would stop bitching me out when I force her to reschedule vital meetings at the last minute. You’d be wrong. I’d fire her if we didn’t both know she’s the main reason I _can_ take a day off now and then. I sit down and take a long swallow of the sparkling water and wonder why it isn’t something stronger as I count... eleven new e-mails since noon. All of them from one person or another at Kinnetik, all of them flagged IMPORTANT. Christ.  
  
I resist the urge to just delete them unread on the off chance there actually is something that couldn’t wait the few fucking hours until I’m back in the office. A quick check of my phone shows six voice messages waiting. Would somebody please remind me why I pay these people ridiculous amounts of money? I start with the oldest e-mail first and immediately feel my eyes glaze over. It’s not bad news, it’s just my Pavlovian response to anything from Ted Schmidt with _Quarterly Costs Analysis_ in the subject line. There are two more just like it and by the third I’m trading the Pellegrino for a nice, neat shot of Beam.  
  
I toss it back and consider another, but settle for a beer instead. We skipped breakfast and fucked our way through lunch; a poke in the ribs didn’t rouse Justin, but his stomach will, sooner rather than later would be my guess, so I foresee a trip to the diner in my near future.  As I head back to the computer, beer in hand, from the darkest recesses of my mind I hear a snippet of a song I must have heard in some breeder bar I was forced to meet a client in... _‘it’s five o’clock somewhere.’_ Like I give a flying fuck. But it makes me laugh and I get through the rest of the e-mail with Jimmy Buffet’s voice in my head urging me to drink to my heart’s content no matter the time of day. God bless America.  
  
The voice messages are more of the same. One from Cynthia with the new date and time of my aborted meeting. Two from Ted, essentially repeating everything he said in the e-mails. Fucking accountants. The next one is from Stephan in the art department, wishing to discuss the notes I made on his boards for the new Home Station campaign. I delete that one, quite certain he’ll never fully appreciate how fortunate he is that I don’t return his call. Next up is Cynthia again and I smirk at her tone of voice, almost conciliatory after the frostbite I got listening to her first message. I am definitely not smiling by the end of this one.  
  
“Hi Brian, sorry to bother you again. I just thought you should know the doctor’s office called here this afternoon. They said they left a message on your cell, but it sounded kind of urgent, so I wanted to make sure you got it.” ... ... ... “I hope everything’s all right. Call me if you’re not going to be in tomorrow.”  
  
Fucking-mother-fuck! They aren’t supposed to contact me at the office. _Nobody_ is supposed to know about what we’re doing until after everything is safely underway – we made that perfectly clear. I’m about to dial the number to rip somebody at the fertility clinic a new asshole when another email pops up on my screen. It’s from Dr. DePietro, our specialist and the man who will be performing the procedure on Abby. I move the cursor to click on it and then I hear Cynthia’s words again _... it sounded kind of urgent._  
  
And I hesitate. Pathetic as it may be, I don’t want to open it. I think of Justin sleeping in the next room, the way he was smiling when we left that clinic this morning. Let me tell you - Debbie has no fucking idea what sunshine really is. All I know is I never want to be the one to take that away from him. Never again. Shit.  
  
I click in and the first thing I notice is that it’s cc’d to both Justin Taylor and Abigail Brennan – and there it is again – this irrational urge to stop right there, because nothing good can come of reading any further. But my eyes automatically scan the page and see what amounts to a form letter, confirming our visit this morning and reminding us our appointment for the implantation is tentatively scheduled for Thursday. They will contact us the morning of to confirm the time. There’s a personal note at the bottom from Dr. DePietro himself, advising us that today’s part of the procedure was successful and congratulating us on this latest step in our little odyssey. And that’s it. No drama, no tragedy. Fuck me.  
  
A breath I didn’t realize I was holding seeps out and I scrub a hand over my face, not sure if I should laugh or throw myself under the nearest bus. But I do make a mental note to educate Cynthia on the meaning of the word ‘urgent’. Jesus Christ.  
  
I try to identify the odd feeling in my gut and all I can come up with is relief. I want to say it’s only about Justin, that I’m just glad I don’t have to disappoint him. But it’s more than that, and I won’t pretend it isn’t. For weeks, _months_ now it’s been all about legalities and tests and schedules and science. Today... all that theory became reality. Today, at some point – fuck, maybe if the universe has a sense of humor it happened while I was balls deep in Justin – our kid was conceived.  So if I was a little unnerved to think maybe something went wrong with that, well, that’s just too fucking bad.  I know how happy this will make him and all I want to do is go in and wake him up right now so I can see his face when he reads it. And that is quite possibly the gayest thought I’ve ever had in my entire life, yet I still find myself climbing the few steps up to the bedroom. I am so completely screwed.  
  
He’s unraveled himself from the duvet again and is sprawled on his stomach, his arms wrapped loosely around my pillow. Eight years in and the sight of him naked in my bed never fails to make me hard. The late afternoon sun filters through the louvered slats, painting his body with alternating stripes of light and dark, accentuating the smooth, flawless skin of his back, the curve of his ass, the mop of messy blond hair turned pale gold in the thin sunlight. Sometimes I wish I were the artist he is so I could capture him like this, commit it to canvas so the whole world could see him the way I see him. Christ, I really am turning into a lesbian. But then he rolls partway onto his side and crooks his leg, raising his perfect ass ever so slightly in the air and the things I want to do to him would send a muncher screaming into the night.  
  
Slipping off my jeans, I crawl onto the bed and stretch out alongside him. Even sound asleep it only takes a moment before instinct kicks in and he’s molding himself to me. I drape my arm over his waist and immediately he covers it with his, threading his fingers into mine and pulling my hand up close to his chest. My growing erection is nestled between the warm, fleshy cheeks of his ass and part of me just wants to grab a condom and lube and fuck him awake, but he’s not ready. Not yet. Fortunately, I know exactly how to remedy that.  
  
I use my nose to push his hair aside and run my tongue along the nape of his neck, breathing him in, letting the taste and smell of him fill my senses. A small sigh escapes him as I press a kiss to the top of his spine and move my hips just enough to let him feel me. I lightly graze his nipple and feel the tiny nub stiffen under my palm. His hand slips away as mine drifts lower, over his flat belly, bypassing his slowly filling cock for the smooth, white skin of his hip, so thin there it’s almost translucent. My fingertips feather down the length of his thigh then back up and through the wiry nest of curls. Another, more breathy sigh parts his lips as I wrap my fingers around his cock, already thick and heavy in my hand.  
  
I take my time, letting my tongue play along the lines and planes of his shoulder blades, alternately kissing and licking my way downward. His breathing begins to quicken as his body reacts to my attentions, the nerves and muscles twitching just below the surface. Goosebumps rise along the wet trail my mouth leaves behind as I inch my way lower, but he’ll fight waking as long as he can. Justin loves fucking, he loves being fucked, but there is nothing Justin loves more than waking up slowly with my tongue in his ass. He’s fully hard by the time I reach the small of his back, and when I press my lips there he thrusts instinctively into my hand. The small, disapproving sound he makes in his throat when I let him slip from my fingers changes quickly to a moan of pure need as I roll him onto his stomach and take his hips in my hands, pulling him up just enough to allow me full access. He all but purrs as I lay a line of soft, wet kisses along the cleft of his ass.  Now he’s awake.  
  
Using my thumbs to spread him just a little, I lick slowly from his tailbone all the way down to his balls, tonguing the small, smooth patch of skin beneath them just long enough to make him squirm, then I flatten my tongue and sweep a wide swath back and forth between the two points until he’s soaking wet and panting. I grab a pillow and slip it underneath him for support and he’s already grinding against it when I bring my mouth back to him and part his cheeks again. My warm breath plays over his hole as I trace the edges with the tip of one finger and lightly flick it with my tongue. He pushes back with a breathy moan and when I answer with a firm kiss directly on his tight little pucker, it’s all I can do to hold his hips still.  
  
“Don’t come.” I bite softly at one cheek for emphasis and feel his body shudder its response as I point my tongue and push into him. He clenches around me, bearing down as if trying to deny me entrance even as he pulls me in deeper. I stretch my tongue as far as I can go, then slip it out and lick a few quick circles around his hole before stabbing it back inside him. Again and again I repeat the pattern until he’s a quivering mess, chanting my name and rutting mindlessly into the pillow to gain a little friction for his leaking cock.  Fuck, I love doing this to him.  
  
“Oh god, Brian.” _Brian, Brian, Brian._ I tighten my grip on his hips and pull him up, denying him even that much relief.  
  
“I said don’t come.” The words are barely a whisper as I slip my tongue inside again and mercilessly slide a finger in alongside it. He lets out a groan that is somewhere between agony and ecstasy and opens up for me as I nudge his prostate. He’s close. So fucking close he’s trembling and I’m tempted to make him come just like this. But that’s not what he wants, and it’s not what I want. Christ, I’m so hard now that I could probably come just from the sounds he’s making. He practically sobs with frustration when I slip my finger out and turn him over onto his back. He reaches for his cock, dark red and hard against his belly, but I grab his hand, and then the other as well as I move up his body and place his arms above his head. I hold them there, silencing his protest with a long, wet kiss before I work my way back down between his legs.  
  
Lowering my mouth to him again, I swipe my tongue over the velvety-soft head of his cock, savoring his taste, so familiar and yet I never tire of it. I’m still for a moment, just letting my hot, moist breath flow over his superheated skin, before I lick slowly up one side of the shaft and down the other. He draws a shuddering, almost desperate breath as I swirl my tongue around the base and I’m wondering how much more he can take when I feel his hands slide into my hair and his knees come up. He plants his feet on either side of my shoulders and I look up into wild blue eyes. His message is loud and clear: Playtime is over.  
  
Using one hand to caress his balls, I stroke his erection with the other and run my thumb through the droplets of pre-come gathered at the tip, wetting my lips with it as I take him into my mouth. They barely close around him before he arches off the bed and thrusts upwards with a strangled curse. It takes all my expertise not to gag as the thick head of his cock slams into the back of my throat, but I move with him and take it all. He falls back to the mattress and his fingers tug at my hair; I slide my hands up his thighs, splay them over his taut belly, feel his muscles rippling from the effort he’s making to control himself. He thrusts once and pulls back, but I follow him down, the low moan in my throat his signal to let go.  
  
And he does. Slowly at first, rolling his hips so that he almost slips all the way out at the bottom of each stroke, then I hollow my cheeks and pull him back in on the upstroke, massaging him with my tongue. He gasps when I swallow around him and I stop moving altogether, letting him set the rhythm as he rocks in and out of my mouth. I hum my approval, the vibrations setting off little shockwaves in him that I can feel all the way down to my toes, and he’s lost. A constant stream of sounds pour out of him, a litany of _oh,_ and _jesus_ and _fuck_ and _oh oh yes fuck oh_. His hands slip from my hair and I look up to see them fisted in his own, like that’s the only thing keeping him from flying apart. His head tosses from side to side as his pace quickens, each thrust of his hips shorter, until he’s hardly pulling out at all, only pushing deeper. He’s so fucking hot when he’s like this, shamelessly wanton, his whole being concentrated on just one thing – the pleasure of my mouth on his cock. I need to fuck him, need to be inside him again. Right now.  
  
Relaxing my throat, I take him in to the root before I contract it again, and he’s gone, his orgasm rippling through him in waves as he comes hard and hot down my throat. I swallow all he has to give until I feel the last faint pulse on my tongue and then let him slip from my mouth as I lean up to feed him a taste. He’s still flying but he sucks my tongue into his mouth on pure instinct, swirling it greedily with his own, and he nearly growls when I break the kiss just long enough to reach for a condom. He bites at my shoulder, my neck, sliding his lips up to suck on my earlobe, and Jesus fuck, it’s all I can do to roll it on as he moans wetly against my ear.  
  
“So fucking hot, Brian.”  
  
Christ. I come to my knees and lift his legs onto my shoulders, sliding him towards me until his ass is in my lap, my cock poised at his entrance. As wet and open as he is, the lube of the condom is enough to let me in without hurting him. Watching his face as I enter him is an experience all on its own. The way he bites down on his bottom lip in anticipation when I tease his hole with the head of my cock. The brief flash of pain that crosses his face as I breach that first, tight ring of resistance. The way his eyes darken with lust as I slowly push past it, the fine beads of sweat that dot his upper lip, and the warm flush that creeps up his chest, staining his pale skin red with desire as I pivot my hips and sink a little farther into his sweet, round ass. I’ve witnessed it a thousand times and if I see it ten thousand more, it won’t be enough. It will never be enough.  
  
I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. He’s… fucking beautiful. But it’s more than that. It’s more than knowing that he has a deeper need, a desire for me that goes beyond pleasure or pain. More than knowing that the passion, the pure, unadulterated love in his eyes is just for me, that nobody else has ever seen him like this and nobody ever will. It’s knowing that he can finally see the same things when he looks at me. He can, and he does.  
  
He practically folds himself in half to get to my lips, and I meet him half way as our mouths crash together. We kiss long and hard, every sweep of his tongue against mine going straight to my dick and I feel myself grow impossibly harder inside him. I wrap my arms around his thighs and hold on as I snap my hips, burying myself to the hilt. Our lips part with a wet, smacking sound as his head falls back, his mouth open in a silent scream. Another thrust forces the sound from him, a guttural, throaty sigh that builds into a gasping plea for more. More. Now. He reaches for me again, his nails biting into my arms as he grabs them for support and fuck, I think he might be drawing blood, but I am beyond caring as he licks at my mouth, his teeth scraping along my bottom lip.  
  
“Fuck me, Brian. Do it now.”  I nearly come just from the sound of his whispered demand against my lips and my tenuous control shatters.  
  
“Gonna,” I grunt, pulling out and then slamming back into him again. “Gonna fuck you hard,” I promise, pushing him back onto the bed. His shoulders are pressed into the mattress, his hands grasping for purchase at the sheets as I rock into him. He’s so tight, so hot, so fucking good it hurts but it’s still not enough. Never enough. I throw my head back, thrust harder, push deeper. Every few strokes I change my angle so that my cock bumps his sweet spot and he’s already hard again. Each nudge of his prostate sends a spasm of pleasure through him, which translates directly to my cock as he clenches around me. So. Fucking. Good.

  
  
I run my hands up his legs, feel the muscles flex in his calves where they rest on my shoulders as I turn my head and lick a rivulet of sweat from the curve of his knee, his toes curling from the sensory overload. I look down at him and he’s doing that thing he does when he’s on the edge of being too far gone. His neck is arched, his head thrown back, with his arms folded over his eyes, as if sight is one more sense than he can handle when every synapse in his body is firing at once. His bottom lip is caught in his teeth and he’s taking these shallow little sips of air that punctuate each thrust of my hips. I have to close my eyes for moment too, or this will be over right now, and I want it to last. I want to hear him beg to come again.  
  
I ease his legs down off my shoulders but keep them hooked over my arms as I slow things down a little, lengthening each roll of my hips so that I pull nearly all the way out before sinking back in, balls deep and angling for his prostate with every stroke. He folds under me as I lower my body to him and his mouth falls open with a needful moan as his erection brushes against my stomach. I stop and hold myself deep inside him, reveling in the feel of his ass contracting around my cock. “Justin.” I let his legs fall back to the bed and plant one hand on either side of his head. “Justin, look at me.”  
  
He moves his arms and looks up at me through heavy lidded eyes, his tongue barely peeking out between swollen, dusky pink lips just begging to be kissed. If there is anything hotter in this world, I sure as fuck haven’t ever seen it.  
  
I lean down and brush my lips against his, tracing their outline with the tip of my tongue and nipping softly along his jaw line. He turns his head to the side, giving me access to his smooth, white neck and I find his pulse point, sucking gently at it as I slide my hands under his shoulders and up into his hair.  I use it to bring his mouth back to mine as I begin to fuck him again with long, smooth strokes. The kiss deepens and he draws my tongue into his mouth, sucking it with the same slow, sensual rhythm. I try to keep most of my weight on my arms but he arches into me, desperate for more contact, rutting his leaking cock against my abs. He drags his mouth from mine, gasping, his voice frantic with need. One word is all it takes.  
  
“Please.”  
  
Gathering him to me, I bury my face in his neck as my body covers his completely. Both of us slick with sweat, we move together easily, his small, lithe body molding itself to mine. I feel every beat of his heart, against my lips, against my chest, in the throbbing of his hard cock trapped between us. His legs are wrapped around me so tightly I’m not even really pulling out as I rock into him, yet I still feel as if I go deeper with every thrust of my hips. He’s moaning my name, and fuck me, I’m moaning his, too, as our pace quickens and my orgasm builds past the point of no return.  
  
“Now, Justin,” I breathe into his ear and before the words are fully formed his body goes rigid in my arms. My mouth seeks his, swallowing his cry as he finds his release. I’m right there with him, the orgasm barreling through me like a freight train, coming deep inside him as he contracts around me, milking me of every last drop. We collapse onto the bed, boneless, our mouths still joined; breathing each other’s air, unable to do anything but ride the wave together. I feel his smile against my lips as our bodies calm and our tongues find each other again in a slow, deep kiss. There are a lot of things we don’t always get right, Justin and I, but when we’re like this, we’re fucking perfect.  
  
* * *

 

“Red.”  
  
“What?”  
  
He leans over my shoulder and peers more closely at the latest version of Stephan’s Home Station ad on my monitor, tapping his finger on the bold, black type.  
“It should be red. Try _Mars_ or maybe _Chinese_. And bigger.” A few clicks of the mouse and he’s changed the color and tweaked size of the font. “There.”  
  
The self-satisfied grin on his face dares me not to love it, but goddamn if it doesn’t change the entire mood of the board. Twat. Before I can come up with a way to approve without actually telling him what a talented fucker he is, he’s got my chair turned around and he’s sitting in my lap.  
  
“I’ll take my consulting fee out in trade if you don’t mind,” he says, reaching for my belt. An unfailing eye for color is only one of his many gifts - within seconds my pants are loosened and his warm fingers are stroking me through the fine, cotton knit of my underwear. Christ. I have to bite my lip to stifle a groan as he licks at my ear. “I think you’ll find my rates are extremely reasonable, Mr. Kinney.”  
  
I’m debating the costs vs. benefits of sweeping my desk clean and fucking him across it when I hear a quiet, but all-too-familiar cough from behind us. The little shit doesn’t even blush anymore, just smiles over my shoulder at her and quietly slips his hand out of my pants.  
  
“Hi Cynthia.”  
  
“Justin. It’s good to see you.”  
  
She’s as bad as he is, barely batting an eyelash as I turn the chair back around to face her, my arms still full of blond. I wonder exactly when it was that I ceased to intimidate either one of them?  
  
“The Remson people are here for your ten o’clock. I put them in the board room.”  She makes herself busy gathering the files for the meeting while I dump Justin off my lap and stand up to get my pants back in order. “And remember, we have Veri-Fine at eleven-thirty.”  
  
I narrow my eyes – she’s well aware how much I hate back-to-back meetings when a pitch is involved, but since this is the client I blew off earlier in the week, I know better than to challenge her on it. Beside me, however, I can practically hear the gears grinding in Justin’s head. We’re due at the fertility clinic at two o’clock.  
  
“Uh, Brian, you didn’t, uhh, forget did you?”  
  
As if that were humanly possible. He’s been practically bouncing off the walls for three days now.  
  
“Seeing as I haven’t had a stroke in the fifteen minutes since you last mentioned it, no, I haven’t forgotten.”  
  
“Well good.” He stretches up onto his toes for a quick peck on the lips. Fortunately for him, he’s smart (and fast) enough to be on the other side of the desk and half way to the door before he continues, “It never hurts to remind people of things when they get to be your age, you know.” Unfortunately for him, he realizes his mistake too late. I know this by the soft, sibilant curse he utters as he reaches for the handle.  
  
Watching his expression change from cocky to chagrined in approximately seven-tenths of a second almost makes the crack about my age worth it. Almost. He hesitates for a moment before turning around, clearly weighing the odds that I’ll just let him off the hook based solely on the power of his beguiling blue eyes and sheepish smile. I arch an eyebrow at him that says, just as clearly, _keep dreaming, Sunshine._ I jiggle the keys to the Mercedes, dangling them just out of his reach as he makes his way back around the desk. He’s hired Emmett to cater Mother Taylor’s 50th birthday bash next month and they’re spending the day doing whatever it is they do to plan such an event. I do not want to know what part of that requires the use of my brand new, eighty-thousand dollar SUV - I’ve learned it’s better to just trust in his judgment. And in the knowledge that they both know I’ll have them killed if anything happens to it.  
  
“ _Forget_ something, did we?”  
  
His t-shirt rides up just enough to expose his flat, smooth belly as he reaches for the keys, and my dick twitches in anticipation of the many ways I could make him pay for his impudence. But I can feel Cynthia’s eyes burning a hole in the side of my head, so I settle for a quick, hard smack on his ass instead, as I pull him to me and press the keys into his hand. “Sorry, Brian,” I say mockingly against his lips as he offers me a tongue-filled act of contrition. He kisses me like he means it, and then pulls away, parroting me with a slightly breathless apology.  
  
“Sorry, Brian.”  
  
Any thoughts of a more... meaningful form of retribution are dashed by yet another cough from behind, this one decidedly less discreet than the last. Cynthia hitches up the armful of folders she’s holding, looking pointedly between us and the door with what, for her sake, I’m going to pretend is not the world’s most ill-disguised eye roll.

  
Regretfully, I let Justin go and after extracting yet another promise that I’ll be ready to go when he comes back to pick me up, he leaves for his date with Emmett, while I dazzle Remson with the final touches on the campaign for their newest wonder-drug. Of course, that isn’t all that much of a challenge. In fact, since re-signing with Kinnetik after the epic failure of their _‘Rekindle the Flame’_ ad campaign, courtesy of Gardner Vance and his pathetic team of yes-men, I’m fairly confident that Lawrence Remson would get on his knees for me if I told him it would help sell his little miracle hard-on pills.  
  
Veri-Fine Foods is another story. Frankly, I’m surprised they even bothered to reschedule this meeting. It took six fucking weeks just to get the opportunity to present our proposal to their head of Product Development, who happens to be an officious little prick. Our first presentation was met with mild enthusiasm, but enough ‘suggestions’ to pretty much send us back to the drawing board. Then the revisions were ‘genius’, just what he had in mind, except... those didn’t quite make the cut, either. I would have already told him to shove his fucking organic frozen dinners up his permanently clenched ass, except he also happens to be the son of Harrison Grant, Sr. President and CEO of The Verity Group. The sixth largest food and agriculture conglomerate in the country, with an advertising budget larger than our top five clients combined.  
  
I don’t want it all. Fuck, we couldn’t even handle it all - I just want a piece of it.  A very lucrative piece of it. That I even consented to do a request for proposal (also known in the advertising community as a license to steal, in which a potential client basically asks you to provide them your best ideas, and then decides whether or not they’ll pay you for them) proves just how much I want it. I despise the practice with the heat of a thousand suns, but it was the only way to even get a foot in the door with Verity.  
  
I take one last look over our latest, and as far as I’m concerned, our _last_ pitch before I head into the board room. One way or another, this is it. It’s some of our best work, and if good old Harry Jr., can’t see a brilliant concept when it’s right in front of him, then he can fuck off.  
  
Maybe there is something to the old saw about the third time being charmed, or maybe Junior just finally got his head out of his ass, but he loves it. We’re past the final hurdle and before they leave, we have a firm commitment to proceed with test marketing, and a meeting with his father exactly one month from today. All with fifteen minutes to spare before Justin gets here.  
  
The door barely closes behind them when Sid and Janelle file in, each of them looking ever so slightly green around the gills as they wait for the verdict. I really have trained them well. As my art director and media strategist, respectively, they fucking well should be. There aren’t many second chances to fuck something up at Kinnetik, never mind thirds. But I was the one who signed off on the proposals, so the responsibility ends with me. And the fact is, their work was top-notch, based on what they were asked for. Neither of their jobs were ever in jeopardy - not that I’ll ever tell them that. I lean back in my chair and tent my fingers, regarding them in somber silence until Janelle starts to look like she may actually vomit, and I get yet another death-glare from Cynthia. Seriously, the woman never lets me have any fun.  
  
“We’re in.”  
  
Sid lets out a honest-to-god whoop and pumps a fist in the air, while Janelle’s modest little ‘Yesss!’ is barely audible, but their relief is palpable, as is their enthusiasm.  
  
“Congratulations. Nice work, both of you.”  
  
“Thanks, boss.”  
  
“Thank you, Brian.”  
  
They’re both beaming, which, of course, I can’t allow for too long. “Don’t thank me yet. Unless you didn’t have any plans for a life in the foreseeable future?” I hand them each a copy of the project file. “You’ve got a month.” Neither of them so much as blinks, and I can already see the wheels turning as they leave the boardroom together. Like I said - well trained.  
  
Cynthia and I are still going over some of the meeting notes when her assistant taps on the door, stepping inside just far enough to get her attention. I swear, this kid is two weeks into her internship here from Allegheny and I’ve yet to actually hear her speak. Most of her time seems to be spent trying to be invisible whenever I’m in the same room. I’m not sure what she’s heard about me - the truth, no doubt - but she’s going to need a lot thicker skin if she’s going to survive in the advertising world. She’s Cynthia’s problem though, not mine. Taking on a student each semester was her idea, so any and all babysitting duties fall to her. We all know what happened the last time *I* hired an intern.  
  
And speaking of the devil, I see his blond head hovering just behind her in the hallway. I tell her to let him know I’ll be out in five minutes - mostly just to see her reaction. On cue, she turns scarlet and hands Cynthia the messages she’s clutching, before murmuring what I can only assume is _‘Yes, Mr. Kinney’_ , and scurrying back out.  
  
“Christ.” I can’t help but laugh.  
  
“Be nice, Brian.”  
  
Right. Even Cynthia can’t quite say that with a straight face, chuckling as she sorts through the handful of pink message slips. Her smile falters as she comes to the last one, and when she looks up at me, it’s turned into the thin-lipped frown that loosely translates to _‘Brian has fucked up yet again.’_  
  
“Brian,” she begins, shaking her head as she hands me the slip, “it’s none of my business, but should you really be ignoring this?” I have no idea what the fuck she’s talking about, and she must realize that as I glance at the note and raise an eyebrow at her, because she adds in a rush, “You did _get_ the message the other day, right?”  
  
There is a heartbeat or two as I read it when I truly don’t understand. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear Cynthia’s voice. _I just thought you should know the doctor’s office called here this afternoon. They said they left a message on your cell, but it sounded kind of urgent...._ That goddamn fucking clinic! Except... I look at the note again, written in bullet points, in the small, cursive script of a nervous college student.  
  
 _Following up on his phone call from Monday.  
Important to contact him as soon as possible.  
Please call or come by the office at your earliest opportunity._  
  
“Brian? I called to make sure...”  
  
“I got your message.”  
  
“But...” Her eyes dart to the paper in my hand.  
  
“I _said_ I got it.” It comes out harsher than intended and immediately, the tight-lipped frown returns, but fuck me, I need a minute here.  
  
I read the message one more time. The language is simple enough, but the words just won’t compute. Because right above them is the name, Dr. Marvin Keppler, and the phone number to call. Not the fertility clinic. Not even fucking close.  
  
“Brian?”  
  
“I called. It’s nothing.” Even I am surprised at how easily the lie rolls off my tongue. “They just needed to reschedule my appointment. His receptionist must have forgotten to make a note.” I crumple the paper and toss it into the wastebasket. She seems mollified, if not completely convinced, and before she can wind up again, the door opens and Justin pops his head in. God bless the impatient little shit.  
  
“Ready?”  
  
At the moment, I’m not sure I’ve ever been less ready for anything, but I nod and let him lead the way.  
  
We make the twenty minute drive to the clinic in relative silence. He asks me how my meetings went, briefs me on Emmett’s plan to make Jennifer’s birthday party ‘one for the ages’, informs me that Debbie will have my balls if I miss one more of her fucking family dinners. My responses are predictable - short and utterly non-conducive to conversation - and mercifully, he doesn't push it. For once, I’m glad he thinks he knows me so well. Because I'm certain that's why he's so willing to let it slide - the same reason he’s talking about everything _except_ why we're here - because he thinks I'm going to fucking lose it if he does. He can't possibly know how much more welcome that would be than the relentless echo of Cynthia’s voice in my head. _Urgent. Urgent. Urgent._  
  
It’s not until we’re in the parking lot that he finally starts to crack. Abby has arrived as well - we see her disappearing through the front door just as I pull into an empty space and shut the engine down. A solid minute passes and I’m painfully aware he’s waiting for me to make the first move - for any sign that I’m really okay with this. And I am. I swear I am, I just don’t seem to be able to let go of the steering wheel.  
  
I feel his eyes on me, imploring me, and I hate that I can’t look at him. I hate that his hand is shaking slightly as he reaches across the seat and lays it on top of mine.

  
“Brian... are you sure? Are you _sure_ you’re ready for this?”  
  
But I hate _that_ most of all - that small, plaintive note of doubt in his voice - the one I put there. God damn motherfucking son of a bitch, I don’t want to ruin this day for him. I won’t. I just fucking won’t. I turn my hand over and lace my fingers with his, squeezing it tight.  
  
“I’m sure.”  
  
I can feel the heat of his smile before I ever turn my head - and I know that whatever else happens, _this_ is right. When I do look, he’s... fucking radiant, and he asks his question like he already knows the answer. He should, he’s heard it before.  
  
“Then you mean it?” He grins, and with every bit of every thing I’ve ever felt for him, I smile, too.  
  
“I’ve never meant anything more.”  
  
We meet halfway over the console for a deep, wet kiss and it’s a long moment before he reluctantly pulls back.  
  
“We have to get inside.”  
  
I nod my agreement, but there’s something I have to do first.  
  
“You go ahead in, I have to make a quick call.”  
  
“Briaannn!”  
  
“I know. Can’t be helped. I’ll be right there.” He opens his mouth to object, but I silence him in the most effective way I know how. Okay, the second most effective. “I promise, I’ll be right behind you. Go on.”  
  
Once he’s through the door, I take out my cell and scroll through the list of voice messages. Sure enough, there is one from Monday with the small, blue star beside it that indicates ‘unheard’. How the fuck did I miss it? I’ve gone over it a dozen times in my head in the last half hour, and I still don’t know. Not that it matters now.  
  
I touch the keypad and the options pop up on the screen. It crosses my mind that I could just hit ‘delete’ and pretend I never got it. My next checkup is in a couple weeks anyway - that’s why we had the lab run my markers, since they were already doing the standard tests for the sperm donation. Save time, save aggravation. They’re always negative anyway, right? So why the fuck not?  
  
I could wait.  
  
Or, I could remove his number from my contact list and pretend I’ve never heard of him when he calls again. Because he will call again. Fuck that. Fuck me.  
  
I listen.  
  
 _‘Hello Brian, Marvin Keppler here. We received some results from LabCorp on the blood samples you gave last week. I realize your appointment isn’t for two weeks, however, some of the numbers are a little off. It may only be a lab error, but I’d like to run the tests again here at the office, just to be on the safe side. I don’t really think there’s anything to worry about, still, as you know, time is of the essence in these things. You don’t need an appointment, just come on in and we’ll get you looked after. Tomorrow would be best.’_  
  
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.  
  
* * *


	3. Part 3

_“Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow, it empties today of its strength.”_  
                              - - Corrie ten Boom, _Clippings from My Notebook_

3.

_Pittsburgh, August 2008_

 “One more, Mr. Kinney,” the nurse says, and I feel the slight pressure of her pushing another vial into place on the needle in my arm. The touch of a cotton ball against my skin as she removes the needle lets me know she’s finished, but I only look after I’ve automatically covered it with my finger and bent my elbow. I know the drill too well; I sat in this chair every three months for three goddamn years. I still can’t watch it though. I fucking hate needles.

She writes whatever it is they write on the label and scoops up the other two along with it, smiling far too brightly as she assures me they’ll put a rush on the results. One thing about cancer - once you’ve had it, there is no screwing around when it comes to tests. Shit gets done. Having someone like Marvin Keppler as your oncologist doesn’t hurt either.

Radiology is next. I don’t like to think about how much radiation I’ve soaked up since I was diagnosed. Way too fucking much. Radiotherapy, X-rays, CT scans - I’m surprised I don’t glow in the goddamn dark by now. But all the studies say the benefit of diligent surveillance far outweighs the risk, so I do it. When I passed the three year window, Justin and I celebrated with a trip to Sydney. Somehow, it seemed appropriate.

It also meant I graduated to six-month check-ups. This past March marked year four – one more to go and then, home free. All this would be a bad memory. That was five months and twelve days ago.

“Arms relaxed at your side, Mr. Kinney. That’s it, deep breath now.”

The technician comes back out from behind his window and turns me to the side, positions my arms above my head, then disappears again.

“Big breath in, and hold it please.”

Yeah, right. I nearly laugh. I feel like I’ve _been_ holding my breath for two days now. I feel like I’ve forgotten how the fuck to exhale. I’m not even sure how I got through Abby’s procedure without screaming at them to stop. Or how I let Justin get on the plane this morning without telling him that the... That I might...

“Okay, Mr. Kinney, you’re finished.”

This time I do have to laugh. Or cry. Or scream. I may never use another double entendre again.

An ultrasound on my remaining ball, and now, I wait. A couple hours. Keppler told me to go have some lunch, come back in a couple of hours and he would have the results. It was probably a mistake, he said, a mix up. The lab the fertility clinic uses doesn’t specialize in cancer markers like they do here at Hillman. Seems to me this is a shitload of tests for a ‘mix up’ though.  Still… I was never the information hound that Justin is when it comes to this shit, but I did make a point of at least knowing the fundamentals of my disease, and the numbers they’d returned just couldn’t be right. My physical exam was fine; I feel fucking great. It has to be a mistake. Has to be.

Even if I didn’t check my one good ball on a regular basis, Justin does. Oh, he tries to be casual about it, but I know he does. And he knows I know, too. We’ve never talked about it, not even after he came back and force-fed me his fucking chicken soup. But I saw the history in his web browser; I know he knows more about my type of cancer than any healthy twenty-five year old should. _I_ know he worries about me, and _he_ knows I can’t let him. So we compromise by neither of us acknowledging the fact that every so often when we’re in the shower, he’ll linger just a little too long on one side, squeezing and rolling and weighing it in his hand, in an entirely different positive, life-affirming way.

But even if the cancer did come back, the odds of it being in my other ball are slim. Since I chose to have the radiation, the chances of it recurring at all are less than five percent, and that goes down with every passing year. At this point I have a bigger risk of getting struck by lightning. Yet here I am.

I sit and wait in the reception area of Keppler’s office, because I don’t trust myself to get in the car and drive. I’m not sure I would stop if I did.

“Mr. Kinney?” Grace has been Dr. Keppler’s clinical nurse since I’ve been coming here.  She is impossible to read, a complete professional, but the light squeeze she gives my shoulder to get my attention makes my stomach clench just a little. I’ve probably spoken more with her than with the doctor himself over the years, since she’s the one who’s always called me with the all-clears after my check-ups. Now she’s telling me the doctor is ready to see me and something in her tone makes my stomach crawl all the way up to my throat. My legs are a little shaky when I stand up, and I curse myself for being ridiculous as I walk into his office. Only, he’s _not_ so impossible to read. And I am not so ridiculous to be afraid. Not fucking ridiculous at all.

* * *

_New York City, September 2008_

_I am fabuloso, se_ _ñor._

I’m not sure I heard him right. I couldn’t have heard him right. Please, God, don’t let me have heard him right.

“What?” I try, I really fucking try not to squeak the word, but I know that’s how it comes out.

He just stares at me for the longest time. Tears drip off his jaw, leaving small, dark circles where they land on the soft cotton t-shirt he’s wearing. His nose runs, too, as red-rimmed as his eyes, yet he doesn’t actually seem to be crying. He just seems... wrecked. Broken in some profound way that I can’t even begin to wrap my mind around.

I’ve still got him by the arms - something I only remember when he winces and I realize my fingers are buried in the soft leather of his jacket, my knuckles white from clenching so hard. I let him go and he sways slightly, pulling his lips into his teeth and rolling his shoulders in a slow-motion shrug. I don’t really trust myself to speak, but I ask him again, working hard not to let the panic I feel gnawing at my gut take over.

 “Brian, what the fuck is going on?”

His jaw works some, and I think maybe, maybe he’s actually going to talk to me. But then he shakes his head and just lets out a quick puff of air, dragging the back of his hand across his face.

“I need a drink.”

The Jim Beam is still sitting on the sideboard where I left it.  Despite his condition he zeroes in on it like a fucking bloodhound. For a moment I’m too surprised to do more than watch him stumble past me and grab the bourbon, unscrewing the cap as he sprawls, loose-limbed on the couch.

“ _Sl_ _áinte_ ,” he mutters, with a chilling little laugh, tipping the bottle in my direction before bringing it to his lips. He sucks down what must be three or four good shots before I can get to him. I reach for the bottle, but he twists away.

“That’s enough, Brian.”

He draws the bottle away from his mouth, just far enough for a little more of that cold, bitter laugh to escape before he takes another swallow. “Have I taught you nothing, sonny boy?”

“Give it to me.”

“Fuck off.”

He tilts it back again and I make another try for it, but this time he grabs my wrist and yanks it away, hard, nearly pulling me off my feet in the process.

I gasp. I can’t help it. Partly from pain, mostly from shock. No matter what, Brian is always so careful with me, especially of my hand. His fingers bite into my skin and I yelp again as I try to pull out of his grip. The sound seems to penetrate where nothing else has and he releases my wrist as though it was hot. I automatically draw it back, protecting it out of sheer instinct, and when I look down at him, the utter devastation on his face breaks my heart. The bottle of Beam falls from his grasp, spilling unnoticed onto the floor, his gaze pinned only on my hand as he takes it in his.

“Fuck... fuck... fuck...” he whispers hoarsely, petting at my wrist. “I didn’t mean to...”

“It’s all right, I’m okay,” I murmur, but I know he’s not hearing me.

“I didn’t mean it.” He chants the words over and over, oblivious to everything but the angry red imprints of his fingers on my skin.

I sink down onto the couch beside him and ease my hand free, taking hold of his face. “Look at me, Brian. I’m all right. You didn’t hurt me.” He searches my eyes anxiously. I know he can see the truth in them -- he always could -- but I repeat it, just the same. “You didn’t hurt me.”

He nods, finally, and then I can see the truth in his, too. The details don’t matter - they will come soon enough. In his eyes, I see that I didn’t mishear or misunderstand him. What I feared, what we both feared more than anything else in the world is true. I have the strangest urge to laugh as I realize I _do_ know what’s at the corner of 53rd and 3rd after all, what takes up most of the block, in fact.

It’s too much. Too big. I don’t know what to do and I feel like I might just fly the fuck apart. But I can’t.

I can’t.

I slide my arms around him and for a moment he’s rigid, unyielding, wound so tightly I’m afraid of what might happen when he unravels. But then slowly, almost reluctantly, his arms slip around my waist and he presses his face into my neck. I feel the swell of his chest, the small, sharp breaths he takes as he fights for control, and the deep shudder that passes through him when he lets go. His shoulders quake, hot tears soak my skin, but beyond that he is silent. He gathers me in, pulling me closer, crushing me to him until I can hardly breathe, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not sure I want to anyway.

It’s a long time before he stills, before sleep takes him and his body goes slack in my arms. I know I should get up, get him undressed and into bed, or at least let him stretch out here on the couch, but I can’t do it. His head rests on my chest, my nose buried in his soft, dark hair. He smells of smoke and whiskey and desperation and fear and love and I can’t let him go. Maybe I can’t ever let him go again. 

* * *

“Justin?” His voice is low and husky in my ear. It’s the sound I most love to wake up to because I know what will follow. A flick of his tongue, supple lips on my neck, sharp teeth nipping at my shoulder until I roll over and offer him what he really wants – my mouth, pliant and eager for his. I wait for it, but it doesn’t come. I can feel the heat of his body against my back, hear his breath quicken, but still no warm hand slipping between my legs, no wet kisses pressed into my spine. Only my name again. Whispery soft. Needful. Fucker is starting without me!

“Hey, no fair...” I whine, rolling over, and the complaint freezes in my throat. He’s lying beside me, but it’s not our bed. His face is pale against stark, white sheets, save the two bright spots of color that stain his cheeks. His eyes are closed, and he’s drenched in sweat - fever, not desire. I take his hand, tears filling my eyes at how thin it feels in mine, how frail. How wrong.

“Brian? Drink this.” I sit down on the edge of the bed and wrap his trembling fingers around the steaming mug.

 “Will it make me small?”

I cover his hands with mine, choking back a sob at the absolute trust in his eyes as he sips at the awful concoction. No. _No._

“I don’t want to be small, Justin.”

Even as he says the words, he begins to fade. The mug crashes to the floor as his hands disappear beneath mine and I’m left with nothing but my own two clenched fists. Helpless to do anything but watch it happen. Watch him disappear. The sound of my name on his lips grows fainter with each shallow, painful sounding breath he takes. “Justin...”

And suddenly there are others, people in gowns and masks and gloves, pulling me away, telling me there is nothing more they can do. Telling me it’s time. _You have to let go now, Justin._

“No! No... Brian! NO!”

I sit up, so quickly I nearly fall off the couch, gasping for air myself. My heart feels like it’s going to pound right out of my chest and it takes a few, terrifying seconds to get my bearings, to realize it was a dream. Christ. Only a dream. Brian is... Brian is... Oh. Fuck me.

I press the heels of my palms into my eyes and try to rub the grit out of them. I don’t remember falling asleep; I know it can’t have been for very long, because the sun is still low in the sky and it was already nearly dawn when Brian... shit. Where is he? I look around at the empty room and my heart starts racing again until I hear it - the shower.

My insides are still shaking as I walk into the bedroom, stripping my t-shirt off and tossing it towards the laundry hamper before I push my sweats down and kick them off in the same general direction. I smile despite myself as I notice Brian’s jacket draped over the back of the chair in the corner, his jeans and t-shirt laid out neatly across the seat, his boots set precisely underneath. I know without even looking that his socks and underwear are already in the hamper. I wonder briefly where his bag is, where he’s been staying. How long has he been here? How long has he known? How the fuck could he not tell me? _Again._ But I force the thoughts out of my head. There will be time enough for questions. So fucking many questions. Right now, I just need to see him.

Clouds of steam billow up from the top of the curtain surrounding the old-fashioned claw-foot tub that takes up most of my tiny bathroom. Brian hates it because there is no beveled glass door or imported Italian tile to push me up against while he fucks me senseless. But what it lacks in hard, vertical surfaces, it makes up for with its deep soaker tub and the endless supply of hot water that he loves. And contrary to popular belief, a hand-held massaging shower head isn’t only a girl’s best friend. An involuntary, full body shiver runs through me at the memory of that particular discovery. Brian was definitely not complaining that day. I’m just saying.

I watch him for a moment, his silhouette tall and slender through the not-quite opaque curtain. He’s rinsing shampoo from his hair, his fingers carding through it as the sudsy water runs down his long, lean body. He’s so fucking beautiful. Too beautiful to be sick. My eyes drift down, drawn inexorably to the spot just above the crease of his thigh. I can’t see it through the curtain, but I know exactly where it is, the thin red scar that marks his otherwise flawless torso. Goddamnit, he just can’t be sick again. I mean, I check him all the time, even when I don’t think I’m doing it. I missed it once. I couldn’t possibly have missed it again. Jesus Christ.

He hasn’t turned on the fan and the room is like a steam bath, the air moist and heavy with his scent. My skin is already damp from it, but I still have to brace myself against that first, sharp sting of brutally hot water. His eyes are closed as I slip quietly into the tub behind him, but he knows I’m there. He always knows. He doesn’t even flinch as I run my hands up his arms and lean into him to share the spray. I lay my cheek on his back while I adjust to the almost unbearable heat, and when I can breathe again, I press a kiss between his shoulder blades.

His skin is like hot, wet silk against my lips, the taut muscles rippling at my touch. My arms slip around him, hands slowly trailing over his ribs to lie flat against his belly as I cover his back with wet, open-mouthed kisses. He feels so warm, so solid, so… Brian. God, I need him so fucking much.

I lick a path up his spine, my cock filling just from the sound he makes as I bite gently at the curve of his shoulder. I smile against his skin when his stance widens, as I knew it would, his knees bending slightly to give me access to his neck. After eight years, our bodies are in tune, each of us responding intuitively to the other, not out of anything so mundane as habit, but from the innate desire to give and receive the maximum amount of pleasure. It’s funny how he once believed that was the opposite of love.

My right hand skims over the smooth expanse of his chest, while my left drifts lower, following the well-defined trail down his abs. I feel as much as hear the hitch in his breath as I my fingers drift over his scar and when they brush through the wiry curls and drift toward his balls, he tenses, blocking my hand. I nuzzle his ear, nipping at the lobe and reach for him again.

“Don’t.” He says it quietly enough that I might have thought I imagined it, except this time he shrugs me off completely. Shit.

“Hey.” I pull gently at his waist, but he twists away from me, reaching down to turn off the water.

“I said don’t.” His voice is soft, almost plaintive, but it hits me like a slap in the face. Oh, hell no.

Echoes of much more devastating words, of slamming doors and threatened restraining orders resound in my head. No fucking way. We will not do this again. I know how messed up this is, how scared he must be, but we will not do this again. Not this time. I tug on his arm.

“Brian...”

For a long moment he just stands there, the tension rolling off him in waves and then just when I’m certain he won’t, he turns around. The set of his jaw and the deep furrow that creases his brow speak far louder than his softly whispered demand. I’m torn between my need to reassure him, protect him, and an deep, burning desire to choke the living shit out of him. He averts his eyes, rolls his lips in, refuses to look at me. Damnit!

“You listen to me, Brian Kinney.” I take him by the shoulders, give him a little shake. “Are you listening?”

It takes a minute, but he nods, almost imperceptibly.

“Don’t even think about shutting me out again,” I say, with far more confidence than I feel. Reaching down, I cup him with one hand and give a firm squeeze. “You can’t possibly still believe _this_ is all you are to me. I love you.” This earns me a raised eyebrow, but he still won’t meet my eyes. “Do you hear me? I _love_ you, you asshole. We will get through this.” I realize even as the words leave my mouth that I have no fucking idea what ‘this’actually is, but I don’t care.

“You have no idea,” he says quietly, apparently reading my mind. But he finally looks at me, _really_ looks at me, a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and his face softens in that way of his that nearly brings me to my knees. One hand slips around back of my neck, pulling me towards him until our foreheads are touching - Kinney sign language for _‘I love you, too.’_

“It doesn’t matter, Brian. If you... if we can’t...” Christ, I can’t even say it. How am I supposed to convince _him?_

He lets out a skeptical little snort and reaches down for my hand. I half-expect him to push me away again, so I’m surprised when I feel his long fingers close around mine instead. 

“Don’t worry, Sunshine. The family jewel is safe,” he huffs, sliding our joined hands slowly up his body. But the glib words are belied by the raw emotion in his voice.

“Then what...”  I start to ask, but the question dies on my tongue as I look up at him, his gaze so intense that I barely register the soft hiss he makes as he splays my fingers out between his firm pecs. All the doubt, all the need, all the love that he has such a hard time putting into words is right there in his dark, smoldering eyes. It’s pure and powerful and it takes my breath away, buzzing through my veins like a hit of the best E, or a shot of adrenalin right to the heart; a feeling only someone who has been on the receiving end of that stare could understand.

His grip on my neck tightens, his breath warm on my face as he pulls me closer and brushes his mouth against mine. It’s soft, barely a kiss, but it fuels my need for him like gasoline on a fire. Some part of me knows I should stop him, that we can’t fuck this away, but I don’t. I can’t. Despite everything, I moan low in my throat when his tongue parts my lips. 

He answers with one of his own as the kiss deepens, one hand twisting up into my hair, while his other arm wraps low around my waist. My feet barely touch the porcelain floor of the tub as he gathers me in, crushing me to him, practically devouring me as he grows hard against my belly. He tilts my head back, licking my jaw and nipping at my throat, and oh fuck me, that feels good... and for a few precious seconds I almost forget...

But my hand is still caught between us, palm flat against his chest, and this time there is no missing the sharp breath he takes as my fingers curl into the sleek muscle beneath them. His mouth stills on my throat and he winces when I push back to see what’s wrong. His whole body tenses as my eyes are drawn instinctively to the small, red wound, just below the pad of my thumb, the smooth skin around it swollen, slightly bruised.

“What is this?” The question draws the inevitable arched eyebrow, because what it _is,_ is quite obvious. And yet it makes no sense to me, because what it _is_ , right there in the middle of his perfect, beautiful pecs, is a fucking needle mark. “I... I don’t understand...”

Instantly, the mask slips back into place, his lips thin and tight again as I reach out to him. He flinches as my fingertip grazes the tiny wound but somehow, I know it isn’t physical pain that makes him draw back from me. He stares at me for a few seconds longer and then pushes open the shower curtain and steps out of the tub.

“No, you really don’t.”

He doesn’t even bother with a towel, just walks, dripping wet, into the bedroom. By the time I get myself together enough to get out and follow him, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed with a cigarette in one hand and his vintage silver Zippo in the other. He seems oblivious to me, just twirls the unlit cigarette in his fingers, puts it between his lips, takes it out again, stares at it, as if in some silent debate with himself before throwing both the cigarette and his antique lighter across the room. He drops his head into his hands, cursing raggedly beneath his breath.

“Christ!”

I step in between his legs and drop down in front of him. Appropriate that I should be on my knees I guess, because I’m praying, literally fucking _praying_ that he’ll let me in, that he won’t shut down on me. I wrap my hands around his forearms and gently pull them apart, willing him to look at me. To my surprise, he does, and I ask him, practically beg him, “Then help me. For God’s sake, help me understand. Tell me what’s going on.”

You know that old chestnut about being careful what you wish for? Well, clichés become cliché for a reason, and right now, I wish I’d just kept my big mouth shut. Because Brian’s answer, spoken far too calmly, in a voice I barely recognize, just about kills me.

* * *

_Pittsburgh, August 2008_

Keppler glances at me over his glasses as I take a seat, barely acknowledging me before he goes back to reading the file open on his desk. He has never been particularly gregarious -- a quality I generally appreciate in a person -- but everything about his posture screams bad news. Only seconds pass, I know, but I swear I can hear them ticking away like a time bomb in some ridiculous B-movie. Even the soft click of the door closing behind Grace sounds ominous in the lingering silence.

“So it’s back then.” I’m not sure why I say it, except, it seems like someone has to. Somehow it feels like it will be easier this way. I know the second he looks up at me that it’s true, so to say his answer throws me is somewhat of an understatement.

“Well, yes. And no,” he says, almost distractedly. He pushes his glasses up onto his forehead as he leans in for a closer look at something on his monitor, then back to the reports again. Fuck me.

“Care to explain that, Doc?”

He runs his hand back through his thick, gray hair, scratching absently at his crown. “I’m not entirely sure I can.”

Christ. I’m sitting here with the preeminent medical oncologist in Pittsburgh, a doctor with a whole fucking alphabet’s worth of letters after his name, and he is literally scratching his head at the file in front of him. My file. Seriously, fuck me. 

He turns the folder around so I can see what he’s been studying so intently. The results of the blood work are right on top. I’ve seen a dozen of these reports over the last four and a half years; Justin insisted on keeping copies of everything - blood tests, radiology reports, all of it. Mind-altering drugs and mind-blowing sex are my weapons of choice for fighting my fears. Information is Justin’s. Like his stealth examinations of my balls, we don’t discuss it, but somewhere in the back of a desk drawer at the house, there is a file very much like this one.

So I know what normal numbers look like. These? Not normal. These, in fact, are not even in the same universe as normal. Not only do they confirm the other lab’s findings, they’re even higher. Higher than two fucking weeks ago. Jesus Christ.

Ninety-nine percent. That’s what they told me. With proper treatment, a ninety-nine percent cure rate. Pure seminoma with minimal invasion into the surrounding tissue. As testicular cancers go, it’s the one to have - the most curable solid tumor of them all. Surgery, a little radiation and I’d be back on top. So to speak. Minus one ball, of course. Lucky me.

My βhCG level, one of the tumor markers associated with TC, was pretty high, but they said that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Not all tumors like mine even produce markers, but in some fucked up way it was actually a _good_ thing because it’s something they can measure, a way to monitor the disease.  I swear, if I was any luckier I probably would have dropped dead right then and there.

Fortunately, my levels were back to normal within weeks after the surgery, which meant there was a good chance I was cancer-free, even without further treatment. But because of the tissue involvement, there was a possibility, however small, that it had already spread. The thing about seminoma though, is that its path is both extremely predictable and exquisitely sensitive to radiation therapy. So I let them zap me with their ray gun and spent the better part of a month puking my guts up in exchange for the closest thing to a guaranteed cure I could get. Ninety-nine motherfucking percent. Seemed like a pretty good deal to me. Right up until this moment.

“...if you can do that, Grace will set up the appointments for you as soon as possible.”

I look up, suddenly aware that Keppler is still talking and apparently awaiting some kind of response from me. I suppose the fact that he doesn’t make me _ask_ him to repeat himself is testimony to just how accustomed he is to breaking this kind of news to his patients. He takes off his glasses and sets them on top of the report.

“I’d like to refer you to a colleague for a second opinion. Your blood work is quite troubling, but the greater concern is this.” At some point he’d turned the monitor around and there is an x-ray -- presumably mine -- on the screen. I hear words like ‘further tests’ and ‘biopsy’ and but it’s mostly white noise as he uses the tip of his pen to point out what is obvious, even to me. An ominous looking shadow, roughly the size and shape of a small avocado, just to the left of my spine. 

 _Fuck._ That’s it - the only thought I seem to be capable of forming. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._ It’s the words ‘lab error’ that finally snap me out of it.

“This could still be a mistake?”

Keppler considers me for a long moment before pushing the file aside, then gets up and walks around the desk, perching on the edge in front of me. “I’m afraid not, Brian. Further tests are in order, of course, but your blood work is conclusive; the tumor markers are definitive for testicular cancer. I’m sorry, clearly this isn’t the news we were hoping for.”

He wisely ignores the derisive snort I can’t quite suppress. “You think?”

Fuck. _Fuck._ He’s talking again and I need to focus, but my eyes keep straying to the image on the monitor. In the beginning, when I anticipated this conversation every time I had a blood test, shit, every time I had an ache or a pain I couldn’t explain, I imagined a lot of different scenarios. I never envisioned _that._

“Brian?” His hand is on my shoulder and he’s looking at me in that kind, compassionate, infinitely understanding way that makes him a great doctor. It also makes me want to punch him in the face. I shrug him off and give myself a mental shake.

“Okay, it’s back. I get it. But... ” He follows my gaze to the computer screen.

“Well, that’s the thing.” He pauses for a beat or two, stroking his jaw pensively before turning back to me. “I don’t believe it _is_ ‘back’, precisely.”

 _What the fuck_ just doesn’t cover it. Fortunately, he continues before my head can actually explode.

“According to the pathology report following your surgery, your tumor was 100% seminoma. Your markers levels, or rather, the complete lack of the AFP and LDH markers, also helped confirm the diagnosis.” He takes the top sheet out of my file again, as well as the report from the other lab, shaking his head slowly as he looks them over. “These tests show significant amounts of _all three_.” He hesitates again, just long enough to make sure he has my full attention this time. He absolutely does. “The dramatic increase in these levels in a matter of weeks, the speed with which this tumor has developed... all these factors point to nonseminoma and, I suspect, a highly aggressive form.”

“Christ, give it to me straight, Doc. Don’t sugar coat it,” I scoff, because fuck me. God knows nobody appreciates the no-bullshit approach more than I do, but fuck me running. I grasp at the one pathetic straw I can find. “Are you sure?” I ask quietly. “You said _lab error._ I didn’t imagine that, did I?”

“No,” he smiles ruefully, “you didn’t. I’m sorry, Brian. I was referring to the original diagnosis. You see, it would be extremely rare, in fact I’d go as far as to say impossible, for pure seminoma to mutate into nonseminoma. Given that, there are really only two possibilities. One is that the original pathology was wrong. It’s uncommon, but certainly not unheard of, for a minute portion of the tumor to contain mixed cells that can be missed during biopsy. If there were, and any of these cells had already metastasized, the radiotherapy would have been ineffective on them.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I can’t even wrap my mind around the idea that my life could be on the line because some twat in a lab-coat had a bad day. “Jesus Christ, are you telling me they _missed_ it?”

“I didn’t say that. I said it was one possibility, but in all honesty, I don’t think that’s the case. Johns Hopkins is an excellent facility. Other factors besides the biopsy were considered in making your diagnosis and all indications are that it was the correct one. Quite frankly, I believe if that had happened, you would have likely relapsed within months.”

This is so seriously fucked. The fact it’s taken nearly five years _to get cancer again_ is my reassurance they didn’t botch my diagnosis? And yet, I get the distinct impression that he would have preferred a lab fuck-up over whatever the alternative is. Keppler slides off the desk and sits down in the chair alongside mine, drawing in a long, uneasy breath. The kind someone takes just before telling you something you really don’t want to hear.

“So what aren’t you telling me, Doc? What’s behind door number two?”

* * *

_Liberty Air Flight 1030, NYC-Pittsburgh, September 2008_

“Brian, _please,_ you have to reconsider...” As hard as I fight it, I can’t quite keep my voice from cracking a little.

“I am not having this conversation.”

He puts in his earbuds, cranks up the volume on his iPod and closes his eyes, slamming his seat back into the reclining position as if to emphasize the point. Thankfully, the guy in the seat behind him is in the lavatory, and fortunately for her, he misses the flight attendant’s disapproving glare. I offer her an apologetic smile with a ‘what-can-I-say?’ shrug and hope she doesn’t spit in my drink.

Damn him. I badly want to snatch the ear-phones out and make him listen to reason but if I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s how to pick my battles with Brian. Or at least where and when to pick them. A crowded commuter flight to Pittsburgh is neither. I couldn’t even persuade him to wait until morning to fly home, never mind this. Of course, that doesn’t mean I’m willing to give up completely. I reach over and stroke his cheek, running my fingertips lightly along his jaw-line as I turn his face towards me.

“At least promise me you’ll think about it?” I know he can hear me, despite the music blaring in his ears. Reluctantly, he opens one eye, arching his brow in that way of his that speaks volumes without his ever having to utter a word. He pulls my hand down, but he doesn’t let it go, instead weaving his long fingers through mine and tucking them between us before settling back in the seat again. I’ll take that as a maybe.

Honestly, at this point, it’s more than I expected. Just getting him to agree to me coming home with him took a solemn vow that I would out him to both Deb _and_ Lindsay before the wheels touched the ground if he didn’t. Between that and our little “come-to-jesus” at the hotel, I think I’ve pushed my luck far enough for one day. I stifle a yawn and check the time - a little over an hour until we land. I’m totally wiped but there’s no sense in trying to sleep, even if I could.   

I steal a glance at him and I’m mildly shocked by how... good he looks. I mean, I can see the tightness around his mouth, the slight furrow he gets in his forehead when he’s brooding. But to the rest of the world, he’s Brian Fucking Kinney, large and in charge. Jesus, given how wasted he was last night, it’s hard to believe he’s even sober _now_ , yet still he looks like he just stepped off the cover of GQ, while I on the other hand look exactly like what I am - a guy who’s running on empty. How does he do that?

It’s a façade though, a thin veneer of calm stretched tight over a storm of such magnitude it could blow us all right out of the sky if it were unleashed. Last night I caught a glimpse of just how fragile that façade is, how easily penetrated. How devastating the consequences if it should fail altogether. How dangerously close it had already come.

Kneeling at his feet this morning as the story of the past couple weeks unfolded, keeping that from ever happening again became my number one priority. I won’t lose him. I just won’t. Yesterday morning my biggest concern was whether we’d go out to celebrate or stay in and fuck our brains out all weekend. Christ.

I push my own seat back and close my eyes, grateful to at least rest them for a little while. Instantly, I hear the words again. Like I have in every quiet moment since he first uttered them. Words that changed the course of my life. Of our lives. Words that are burned into my soul.

_“Then help me. For God’s sake, help me understand. Tell me what’s going on.”_

_“I’m fucked.”_

_“Damnit, Brian. What does that mean?”_

_“Fucked.” He huffs out a humorless laugh but his voice is flat, emotionless. “Screwed. Done for. Behind the eight ball. Up shit creek without a paddle.”_

_“Would you stop it!” I snap. “Just tell me what...”_

_“I’m dying.”_

_I sit back on my heels, reeling as though he’d slapped me, my petulant demand stuck in my throat. He did not say... he didn’t. And then, because he knows me, he says it again._

_“I’m dying, Justin.”_

I think maybe it was the way he said my name that made me believe him.

Or at least made me believe that he believed it. Because he’s not. No fucking way. I don’t care what the doctors say, or the statistics, or Brian, or fucking God himself says. He’s not.

But in that moment, Jesus, I thought I was going to puke. I mean, I knew... in my gut, I knew from the minute he stumbled through the door last night looking so broken. I knew the cancer had come back. Deep inside, I think some part of me has always known that one day I’d have to hear those words. I was so fucking scared when it happened the first time that I made it my business to learn everything I could about his disease. Knowledge is power, and knowing that even if it did come back it was still almost always curable gave me the strength to live with the possibility. Truth be told, to even forget about it now and then. I swear to God, the thought that he might get some other kind of cancer never even occurred to me. The idea that he could _die..._ Shit.

“Hey, ease up there, Sunshine.” His voice is soft but rather urgent and I cringe when I realize I’ve got a death-grip on his fingers, laced with mine on his lap. My knuckles are white and it takes me a second or two to tamp down the wave of nausea I feel at the memory and let go. 

“Sorry.” 

He gives me that barely-there, inscrutable smile of his and puts his hand back overtop of mine, but  he doesn’t say a thing. Doesn’t mock the word, or my shaky delivery of it, and isn’t that one of the signs of the apocalypse? And how pathetic is it that I really wish he would? 

I know how to deal with cocky, sarcastic, at times even cruel Brian. I’ve learned (most of the time anyway) to see the truth behind his frequently acerbic wit, whether it be affection or scorn, reluctant praise or outright disdain, self-loathing, or more often, self-preservation. Sure, sometimes he’s just being a prick. Sometimes a cigar _is_ just a cigar. But sometimes he reveals more of himself to me with those seemingly thoughtless words than in all the earnest conversations we’ve ever had put together. That’s not to say he can’t still cut me to the bone at times, but that’s part of who he is, how he deals. As perverse as it sounds, I find a little bit of comfort in it. Right now, he needs that defiant, ‘fuck-you-I’m-Brian-Kinney’ attitude more than ever. *I* need it. 

This Brian, the one who responds to an impassioned plea for reason by holding my hand? Who lets a weak-ass apology pass without so much as a quirk of his eyebrow?  Freaks me the fuck out. 

And I truly thought my freak-out threshold had reached capacity this morning as he sat on my bed and calmly, like he was reading his fucking grocery list, told me that he has an extremely aggressive tumor growing in his chest that may very well kill him. Then proceeds to tell me that the doctors want him to begin treatment immediately - - as in Monday morning - - but he’s not going to do it. And then, for his coup de grâce, stands up and announces he’s going back to Pittsburgh. Alone. 

_For a solid minute, I’m gut-punched. I feel like I might actually vomit. I watch him walk across the room and pull on his jeans, then pick up his shirt, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he sniffs it and then tosses it aside. He opens up my top drawer and takes out one of my white t-shirts. Of course it’s far too small and fits him like a second skin. Naturally, it still looks better on him than it ever has on me.  
_

_Fucker.  
_

_I guess I must have said that out loud because he turns his head briefly in my direction, then continues rifling in my drawer. He comes up with a pair of socks and sits down on the bed again. It’s not until he’s got them on and starts to get up to get his boots that I finally regain the ability to move. I grab his arm and pull him back down with surprising force, considering I’m still sitting on the floor at his feet.  
_

_“Are you insane?” Okay, so not exactly what I thought was going to come out, but seriously. It doesn’t even faze him. He just sits there, stoic, like he knows full well what’s coming and he’s just going to let me get it out of my system or something. Asshole. I’m shaking - and not just because I’m still naked and soaking wet. It takes just about everything I have to stand up and face him, but I refuse to let him see that.  
_

_“Seriously, Brian. Have you lost your mind?” I take his face in my hands and make him look up at me. “Because if you think *anything* you just said is actually going to happen, you’re fucking crazy.”  
_

Now I wonder if he didn’t tell me that way because he _did_ know exactly how I’d react. That I’d be so pissed at him for thinking he could just leave me behind, for even entertaining the thought of refusing treatment, that I might forget to be scared out of my mind. Considering the way things played out, I guess it worked. At least for a little while.

I look down at our hands, joined together, his over mine. One day, I really will kick his ass, you know?

* * *

_New York City, September 2008_

“It doesn’t matter, Brian. If you... if we can’t...”

He’s still got what’s left of my balls in his hand. I almost have to laugh, and not just at the allegory of it all. He looks so stricken it would be comical if he just wasn’t so damn sincere. I reach down and cup my hand over his. 

“Don’t worry, Sunshine, the family jewel is safe.” His eyes never leave mine as I slide our hands up my body and if he notices the slight catch in my breath as I splay his fingers across my chest, he gives no indication. It’s still tender where the needle went in, but his hand is warm, soothing. 

“Then what...” He starts to ask the question and I just can’t let him. Not yet. Not when he’s looking at me like that, like... like I’m his whole fucking world. I stop him the best way I know how. He lets out this breathy little moan as I slip my tongue into his mouth. I know it’s wrong, that I should be strong enough to walk away, that this is only prolonging the inevitable, but God help me, I want this. As fucked up as everything is, it’s been weeks. The worst two weeks of my life and I want... I fucking _need_ this. I need him.

I push one hand up into his hair, slide the other around his waist and pull him to me. He’s already growing hard against my thigh as the kiss deepens, the needy little sounds he’s making going straight to my cock. I’m practically lifting him off his feet as I gather him closer, and Christ, he feels so good. I tilt his head back and run my tongue along his jaw, scraping my teeth over the sensitive hollow just below his ear. He shivers as I nip at his throat and his fingers curl where they lay against my chest. I suck in a quick breath... and freeze, hoping maybe... but there’s no chance he missed it this time.

He pulls away, his eyes drawn immediately to the spot where his hand is pressed against me. Shit.

“What is this?”

_Shit, shit, shit._

“I… I don’t understand.”

He runs his fingertip lightly over the mark, and I can’t help it, I flinch, draw back from his touch. It doesn’t even hurt - except for the part where it’s killing me. I never should have come here.

“No, you really don’t.”

I step out of the tub and head for the bedroom. I need to get out of here but my head is fucking spinning and suddenly I feel like if I don’t sit down, I’m going to fall down. On top of everything else, I have the granddaddy of all hangovers. Fucking perfect. I need aspirin, coffee and quite possibly a loaded Glock, but for the moment I’d settle for a cigarette. Thank Christ for small mercies, my cigarettes and lighter are still in my jacket. I take one out and sit down on the edge of the bed. _“You’ll need to stop smoking immediately, Mr. Kinney.”_ Fucking bullshit. If I want a cigarette, I’ll have a fucking cigarette. _“The chemotherapy regimen you require carries a high risk of lung toxicity. Smoking increases that danger exponentially. I really can’t emphasize it strongly enough.”_

Fuck it.Fuck it _all._ The lighter hits the wall hard enough to leave a mark and I drop my head into my hands. “Christ!”

And then Justin is there again, on his knees, asking, fucking _pleading_ for answers.

“Then help me. For God’s sake, help me understand. Tell me what’s going on.”

The truth. It’s all he’s ever really wanted from me. Trouble is, it’s hardly ever been what he really wants to hear. I’ve spent most of the last two weeks trying to decide whether to shove him off that cliff one last time or jump myself. I still don’t know. I know he deserves better than this. Than me. If nothing else, he deserves the chance to walk away. Or to run.

“I’m fucked.”

“Damnit, Brian. What does that mean?”

“Fucked.” Sometimes I really am a prick. I can’t help myself. “Screwed. Done for. Behind the eight ball. Up shit creek without a paddle.”

“Would you fucking cut it out!” he snaps. “Just tell me what...”

“I’m dying.” And there it is. His precious truth. He sits back on his heels, his mouth frozen open. Before he can voice the denial I can practically see forming right there on the tip of his pretty pink tongue, I say it again. “I’m dying, Justin.”

His skin is still flushed from the heat of the shower, but I can see him blanch beneath it. He looks like he might pass out, or throw up. Or both. He wraps his arms around his torso, as if he’s literally holding himself together, and just stares up at me for the longest moment. And then he asks, why? Not how or when or what, but why? So very Justin.

So I tell him. How Keppler sent me here to Sloan-Kettering for a second opinion because it has the most advanced diagnostic facilities in the country. How their CT guided needle biopsy confirmed what he suspected:  Primary Mediastinal Non-Seminomatous Germ Cell Tumor. Specifically, a particularly nasty mixed germ cell tumor - rare enough that Keppler had never actually seen a case himself. Currently measuring about seven centimeters, too large and because of its location, too intricate for surgery pre-chemo. That it’s Stage IIIA, if the two or three ‘questionable’ lesions on my left lung are the metastases they believe them to be. That it’s not a recurrence or a relapse, but a new, primary cancer, which only makes it that much worse. Strictly speaking, still testicular cancer, dialed up to eleven. Go directly to ‘Poor Risk’. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Fuck you very much. 

Four rounds of chemotherapy over twelve weeks, and then, *if* it works and my markers go back down, and *if* it shrinks the tumor enough to operate safely, surgery. Then *if* there’s no viable cancer left in whatever they remove, _maybe_ a forty percent shot at remission. And if there is? They wouldn’t even talk about odds in that case. _“Let’s take it one step at a time, Mr. Kinney.”_ Which is doctor-speak for, _“the odds are, you’re fucked.”_   

He’s not even looking at me anymore. He’s leaning up against the end of the bed now, hugging his knees up to his chest and rocking slightly. I wouldn’t even be sure he’s listening, except for the abject horror on his face. I know that look well enough to know that there is nothing I can say or do at this moment to take it away. Except maybe replace it. 

“They said I could do the chemo here at MSKCC, or back in Pittsburgh - they’ll be providing the protocol either way. They want to start on Monday.” I pause for a beat, long enough to make him look up. “I’m not going to do it.” Funny - I didn’t even know I’d decided that for sure until the words came out of my mouth. I feel his eyes boring into me as I get up and pull on my pants. “I’m going back to Pittsburgh,” I say, grabbing a clean t-shirt from his dresser. “It’s probably best if you stay here.” I hear him suck in a breath as I pull the shirt over my head. _Fucker._ And just like that, I know he’s going to be all right. 

I sit down on the bed again to put on some socks and as I start to get up for my boots, he grabs my arm and yanks me back down, practically hissing at me.  

“Are you insane?” He’s pretty amazing, this kid -- no, not a kid anymore -- this man, who’s been kicked in the teeth so many fucking times, and every time, he stands up. Maybe a little bent, but never broken. He and Michael, they’ve always drawn _Rage_ as the indomitable hero, but I think we all know who really has the superpowers. Even naked and trembling, he gets up and takes hold of my face in those strong, artist’s hands of his. “Seriously, Brian. Have you lost your mind? Because if you think _anything_ you just said is actually going to happen, you’re fucking crazy.” 

Ladies and gentlemen, Justin Taylor. 

* * * 

“Jesus, Brian...”  He toes an empty fifth of vodka out of the way and sets the overturned chair upright, casting a disapproving eye over the rest of the room. 

“It would appear housekeeping hasn’t been around yet,” I say, picking up the empty bottle and dropping into the wastebasket beside the bed. Seems they take the do-not-disturb sign quite seriously here. I vaguely remember hanging it on the door when I stumbled back in here after Justin’s phone call last night. There is a half-burned joint sitting in the overflowing ashtray and I eye it longingly. Before I can reach for it, Justin grabs the whole mess and flushes it rather unceremoniously down the toilet. 

“Lucky for you,” he says, wiping his hands on his jeans as he comes back out of the bathroom. “Christ, they probably would have called the cops.”  

Looking around, I suppose it does somewhat resemble a crime scene. The bed is pretty much intact, but that’s about the only part of the room not in disarray. Fortunately, this is The Benjamin and not the Best Western. Six hundred bucks a night buys a fair amount of discretion. That, plus what I’m sure will be a hefty charge on my Amex for the empty mini-bar and at least one crystal glass that’s laying in pieces on the floor. 

An untouched room-service meal sits congealing on a tray on the desk and I feel my stomach roll just from the smell of it. The handful of Advil I swallowed at Justin’s hasn’t even put a dent in the pounding in my head. The riot act he read me about exactly how, when and why he was coming back home with me whether I fucking liked it or not didn’t help, either. Twat. All the time he was talking, he was stuffing clothes into his duffel bag, randomly throwing in a few art supplies, a sketch pad, shampoo, his fucking toothbrush. Like he doesn’t have an abundance of all those things in Pittsburgh, but I suppose it felt like he was at least doing _something_. By the time he finished his argument, or more accurately, his declaration, he was standing in front of me fully dressed and bag in hand. 

And now he’s doing the same thing here, only with my things this time. He’s already got the suitcase open on the bed and right now he’s standing in front of the open closet. Since his little rant at the apartment, he’s been oddly quiet. I know there are a hundred questions lurking under the surface -- he’s practically vibrating with them -- but he hardly said a word in the cab on the way here. No questions, no admonitions... no tears. I’ve always admired that about Justin. He’s taken a lot of shit over the years, from his piece of shit father, from the assholes at school. From me. But as much of a drama-princess as he can be, I’ve rarely ever seen him cry. 

He stands at the closet door for the longest time, staring at the clothes hanging there like they had a story to tell. Then he walks over to the dresser, opening one drawer, then another, without touching a thing. He says something, so softly I can’t make out the words, and then, very slowly, he turns around. 

“How long have you been here?” 

I’m not sure I understand the question, except... except that I do. I just wish I didn’t, because I know with absolute clarity that I did the wrong fucking thing. Again. I shrug. 

“How long, Brian?” 

My instinct is to say something sarcastic; a pissed off Justin is so much easier for me. But I can’t. Right or wrong, I chose how I was going to deal with all this. Now he gets to choose. He deserves at least that much. I’m only surprised it took this long. 

“Tuesday.” 

The flash of pain in his eyes makes me feel even sicker than I already do, but it’s nothing compared to the sadness that replaces it as he speaks.  

“All week. You’ve been here all week, going through this alone while I was ten minutes away.” He thinks about it a moment longer. “When I called on Wednesday about the baby... When we made plans for this weekend, when I practically begged you to come early but you said you couldn’t get away...” 

“I wasn’t lying,” I offer. Pathetic, even to my own ears. He just shakes his head.

“Don’t, Brian. Don’t fucking do that.” He doesn’t even seem angry, just... resigned. Or maybe resolved is a better word. He sits down on the edge of the bed, scratching at the light stubble on his jaw as he considers me. Because I can’t think of a single other thing to do, I reach out and brush the hair back out of his eyes. It’s long again, which means he’s been painting a lot. He tends to forget little things like haircuts when he’s in that zone. Just one of the many reasons I appreciate his single-mindedness. Before I can push my fingers into the soft, blond locks, he takes my hand and pulls me down beside him. 

“I’m s...” I begin, but he cuts me off. 

“Don’t,” he repeats, shaking his head again. “I can’t say it’s all right, or that I understand, because we both know that would be bullshit. It’s not all right, and there’s no way I can understand what you were going through... what you _are_ going through. I know that, Brian, but I _hate_ that you didn’t feel like you could share this with me.” His voice cracks a little and he looks away. “I fucking hate it.” The silence stretches out for a minute before he goes on. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. I’m sure you think you’re protecting me somehow, sparing me the pain or some fucked up thing, but you’re wrong. So fucking wrong,” he adds the last on a whisper. 

“It isn’t about you, Justin,” I say, and immediately he rounds on me. 

“Fuck you,” he snaps. “Fuck _you,_ Brian. How can you say that? We’re supposed to be partners. We’re having a child together. _Everything_ that affects you is about me. _You’re_ about me, just like I’m about you. Jesus Christ, what would you do if it were the other way around? How would you feel?” And finally, the tears come, in his voice, in his eyes, but he still refuses to give in to them. He swipes them away with the back of his hand and swallows hard. “I do understand that you’re scared - so am I. I’ve never been more scared in my entire fucking life. But you know what’s even more terrifying, Brian? Wondering if you’re telling me everything now. Wondering why you still don’t trust me after all we’ve been through. Wondering if *I* can trust _you_ not to walk out of my life ‘for my own good’, or... or worse.” 

Fuck. He’s a perceptive little shit, I’ll give him that. I’d be lying if I said that it hadn’t crossed my mind. But not because I don’t trust him to be there for me - for exactly the opposite reason. Because I know that he _will_ be, no matter what, and because there _is_ so much about this fucking disease that he doesn’t know yet. Because I know what’s in my future and fuck me, I do love him too much to ask him to bear me through it. The bitch of it is, I also love him too much not to. Can anyone really blame me for thinking we both just might be better off if I finally bought that ticket to Ibiza? 

I slip my hand around the back of his head and pull him to me, and this time when I murmur my apology into his ear, he doesn’t stop me. “I’m sorry.” 

“I know,” he says, pressing a warm kiss into my neck before he draws back, fixing me with those intense blue eyes. “I know you are, but I can’t do this anymore. It has to end - right here, and right now.” The tears are rolling freely down his cheeks and he does nothing to try and stop them. And I swear to god, I think my heart stops for the few seconds it takes for him to continue. “I love you, Brian. More than anything thing else in this world. For better or for worse. I need you more than I need air and I would do anything for you. Anything. Do you believe that?” 

All I can do is nod. 

“Good. Then believe this, too - if you try to push me away again, or ‘protect’ me with a lie, or even _think_ about giving up for even one second, I will never fucking forgive you. Ever.” 

I cup his face in my hands and just hold him like that for a long moment, then tilt my forehead to his. And for what feels the first time since Cynthia handed me that little pink message slip, I exhale. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” He narrows his eyes at me, but he almost smiles. Almost. I nod silently, lean in, and kiss him until I’m sure he knows exactly what I mean. We’re both a little breathless when I finally let him go. 

“Okay.” 

Then he does smile, watery as it may be, and this time he leans into me. His kiss is tentative at first, but then his tongue seeks mine, his hands slide around my neck and mine work their way under his hoodie, and for a long while that’s all there is - and all the forgiveness we’ll ever need. 

He pulls down the zipper on my leather jacket and pushes it off my shoulders. It lands in a heap on the floor and then I return the favor, yanking the sweatshirt up over his head and tossing it aside in one fluid motion, our lips barely parting in the process. I lie back on the bed, pulling him with me. He straddles me, running his hands over my hips, up along my waist and over my pecs. I’m still wearing his t-shirt and his hands are warm through the tight, thin cotton. He presses against my chest as he moves up to kiss me again and I tense up, only for a second, but it doesn’t go unnoticed. Damnit. 

He sits back on my thighs, his eyes cast down. I’m not sure what I expect, exactly, but I’m relieved when he just slides his hands under the shirt and pushes it up. Wordlessly, I raise my arms and let him pull it off me. When I lie back again, he reaches out and lays his hand on me. 

“Here?” 

I move it just a little until his palm rests just below my left pec. For a long time there is nothing but the sound of our breathing, still needful and quick, but he never takes his eyes off his hand. 

“Does it hurt?” 

I shake my head. It’s fucked -- even the doctors aren’t sure why – but it doesn’t. If hadn’t seen the scans for myself, I wouldn’t even know it was there, this ugly fucking thing inside me. “There’s no pain.” 

Another moment passes in silence and then, slowly, he begins to trace a pattern on my chest, first with his fingertips, and then with his mouth, his lips warm and gentle as he maps every inch where his hand had lain. Hot tears fall on my skin, each one marking the path of soft kisses in their wake as he works his way up to my mouth again. He raises his eyes then, and there is a heartbeat or two when he just stares at me as if... as if he's committing something to memory, and then he kisses me long and hard, like my fucking life depends on it. 

Maybe it does. 

* * *  

“Hey.” I feel his hand caressing my bare ass, and when I don’t respond quickly enough, he swats it lightly. “Wakey, wakey.” 

“Not sleeping,” I mutter. 

“Uh huh. Well, I suggest you haul your not-sleeping ass out of that bed and get dressed. The car will be here in twenty minutes.” 

I squint at the clock on the bedside table. “Shit! Why’d you let me fall asleep?” 

“Let you?” He chuckles low in his throat at the joke we both know that is. Apparently being a gay man doesn’t make me immune to the stereotype; not falling asleep after great sex is pretty much impossible for me. Once, after an epic brainstorming session for _Rage,_ I even managed to fall asleep during – a fact that I may never live down. The only reason I ever got another rim job again is because Brian then immediately followed up my… _faux-pas_ with the douchiest dick-move move of all time. Anyway. 

I swear I only just closed my eyes, but the clock says it’s been almost an hour, during which time Brian has not only managed to pack and put the room back in enough order that he won’t be barred from the hotel, it looks like he’s showered again as well. He’s clean-shaven, dressed impeccably in black wool Armani pants and a mossy green cashmere sweater that sets off his tanned skin to perfection. His hair is clean and shining and I just now realize he’s had it cut since I left Pittsburgh. He looks... flawless. We made love -- no -- we fucked for hours and he took me to all the places he ever has, and then some. _How_ can he be.... fuck. I have to stop going there. 

“Tick tock, Sunshine.” Another smack on the ass chases the useless thoughts out of my head, and me out of the bed. We’ve got a plane to catch. 

Standing at the toilet, I catch my reflection sidelong in the mirror. My eyes are puffy and still a little red. A terminal case of bed-head, not to mention the remnants of being fucked into the mattress, has me looking rather pathetic by comparison. I finish up and glance out at the time again. Car or no car, I need a shower. 

The spray is cold and bracing as it washes over me, exactly what I need. As I rinse off the few places Brian’s tongue missed, I’m struck again by how surreal this all is. Nobody knows better than I do that life can turn to shit in the blink of an eye. Or the swing of a bat. Still, it doesn’t seem possible that yesterday I was literally as happy as I’ve ever been, poised to start the newest, most amazing chapter of this saga we’ve been writing since I was seventeen years old. Today, my most immediate goal is convincing this man I love so much to put himself through hell in order to save his life. 

Where the fuck do I begin? 

* * *


	4. Part 4

_“Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.”_

                                                                                                                                        -- Lao Tzu  
  
4.  
  
 _Hillman Cancer Center - Pittsburgh, September 2008_  
  
Sitting in the sprawling, communal patient reception area at Hillman, waiting for Brian’s name to be called, I can’t help but think of the weeks I spent at Allegheny Memorial, though it could hardly look more different. Hillman is all comfortable sofas and padded leather chairs, where AMH was filled with cheap-but-functional chrome and hard plastic. There is actual artwork hanging on the walls and I’m pretty sure the sculpture in the lobby is a Mosely. No institutional white paint here, or harsh fluorescent lights overhead to make even the healthiest person look pale and washed out. It’s nothing but soft, pastel colors and indirect lighting. It’s quiet and soothing, and I’m absolutely certain that Brian loathes it to his core.  
  
It’s strange to think that I’ve never been here before, considering I know as much about Brian’s medical history as he does. More, probably. Back when I overheard the phone message from Johns Hopkins, I thought I’d go fucking crazy. Is there a scarier word in the whole English language than ‘cancer’? And then when I foolishly let Michael convince me to let Brian keep his secret, I couldn’t even talk to him about it, so I did the only thing I could do to keep from losing it: I educated myself.  
  
The endless hours of research were both reassuring and terrifying, but the main thing I learned was how important it is to be your own advocate - to be involved in your own care, to ask questions and to keep records. Since Brian was interested in doing exactly none of those things, I made it my business to do it for him. After I made him his fucking-chicken-soup, he was decidedly more agreeable to my being involved in things. He made sure I got copies of everything I asked for - lab reports, scans, the works. If I had a question for the doctor, he made sure he came home with an answer. I recall him saying something about the radiation doing a good enough job knocking him on his ass without me doing it, too. Damn straight.  
  
He had thirteen more treatments following our little... discussion at the loft. Everyone reacts differently to radiotherapy; some people go through it with almost no side effects at all. Brian wasn’t so lucky. He spent most mornings at the office, and most afternoons either on the toilet, or on his knees in front of it. But not once, no matter how exhausted he was, or how angry I got, or how much I whined or begged or threatened his remaining testicle, not once would he let me come with him. The last few days he didn’t go to work at all, and still, the stubborn son-of-a-bitch insisted on going to treatment alone. The most I got from him was a promise that he would at least take a cab there and back, and that was after I came home from my shift at the diner to find him asleep in the Corvette with the fucking engine still running. Jesus.  
  
But as much as I wish I could have been here with him, I knew allowing me to see him through the aftermath was the most he could do at the time. Knowing Brian Kinney, that was a hell of a lot.  
  
I see now just how little I really understood back then. Yeah, I had all the facts. I knew exactly what was wrong and how they treated it. I knew how hard it was for him to deal - not just with having cancer, but having _that_ cancer, one that literally hit him where he lives. No fucking wonder he lost his mind when he found out I knew. Ask me how much it sucked that Michael had to be the one to point that out to me. Anyway. His fear-induced moment of madness notwithstanding, he dealt with the whole thing in typical Kinney fashion, with no room for sentiment or pity, self or otherwise. Even his temporary... lack of staying power didn’t faze him for more than a few days. I still don’t know exactly how Brian got his groove back, but he did, and from that day on he never looked back. At least, that’s what I let myself believe.  
  
I steal a sideways glance at him; he looks as though he’s ready to crawl right out of his skin. I realize now I can never fully comprehend how it was for him. How it felt to come here as a patient, to sit every day and wait for his name to be called, so he could receive a treatment he knew was going to make him sick long before it made him well. Then later, through all the follow-ups, wondering each time if there was another reprieve waiting for him behind that door, or if the odds had caught up with him at last. To look around and wonder if the person sitting next to him is living with, or dying from, the same disease that brought him here, and to realize that, sadly, sometimes it’s all too easy to tell. To wonder if he’s next. Not just this time, but every time. Fuck me. Fuck that.  
  
I take a chance and slip my hand under his, carefully avoiding any eye contact, and when he silently threads his fingers through mine, I make myself a solemn vow. He will never wait alone in this room again. He can hate me if he wants to, but he’s going to have to do it while I’m sitting right here beside him.  
  
An involuntary shiver runs through me when the receptionist finally calls his name and I give myself a mental shake. For today, my only goal is to make sure he stays.  
  
* * *  
  
“I read that this is a really aggressive type of cancer… that the tumor could potentially double in size every thirty days. Is that true?”  
  
“Yes. It doesn’t mean it will, but potentially, yes, that’s true.”  
  
“So you can’t guarantee that delaying the start of his treatment won’t make any difference?”  
  
I respect the fact that Dr. Keppler doesn’t look at Brian before he answers. He meets my eyes and responds in the same compassionate but candid way he’s answered all my other questions. His answer is nothing less than I expected, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make my heart sink even further.  
  
“No, I can’t,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m afraid there aren’t many guarantees in this line of work, Mr. Taylor.”  
  
“But you _can_ tell him that the cancer is either going to respond to the chemo or it’s not,” Brian chimes in. “A few more days isn’t going to change that, isn’t _that_ true, Doc?” They’re pretty much the first words he’s uttered since we sat down. This visit is as much for my benefit as his, and since explaining that when we first came in, he’s let me take the lead. This time Keppler does turn to him though, fixing him with a look I recognize well. That resigned, ‘Brian Kinney is too fucking smart for his own good’ frown.  
  
“Also true,” the doctor says, and I can see Brian’s triumphant smirk without even looking. But then Keppler goes on, “I understand why you want to wait, Brian. However, I can’t, in good conscience, encourage this decision. At the moment the tumor appears to be stable and you are remarkably symptom-free, but that can change quite rapidly. Chest pain, difficulty breathing or swallowing, even hemorrhage or pulmonary embolism - as the tumor grows, the threat of all these things grows along with it. And of course, every day that passes increases the possibility of further metastases as well.”  
  
There is complete silence as that sinks in, though I’m surprised neither of them can hear my heart hit the floor. Jesus fucking Christ. I’d read about all those complications and more, but somehow hearing it out loud is so much fucking worse.  
  
“Brian, _please_...” Please what? Please listen to him? Please don’t take this crazy chance? Please don’t fucking die? I know why he wants to put it off. I know it’s only a week. _Only._ Fuck me. We went around and around about it yesterday without getting anywhere. I promised him that I would abide by his wishes if he’d just talk to Dr. Keppler again before making a final decision. So now what? Brian won’t even look at me.  
  
“Mr. Taylor... Justin, these are only possibilities. As a doctor, it's my responsibility to make sure you're both fully aware of the risks, and to offer my advice. The greatest danger lies in allowing it to spread further, but the fact is, what Brian said is true. A few more days won’t determine the chemotherapy’s ultimate effectiveness on the disease itself. However, it could very well affect whether or not he remains asymptomatic.” Keppler looks solemnly back and forth between the two of us, then focuses his attention on Brian again.  
  
“We're making amazing strides in the battle against this disease. The advances in the last few years alone are nothing short of miraculous, in my opinion. Clearly, getting your treatment started as soon as possible is ideal. But I also believe that mindset is as vital to the fight as any drug we have in our arsenal. At the end of the day, you have to do what is right for you. Either way, we’ll be here when you’re ready.”  
  
He stands up and walks around the desk. “I have rounds, so I'll leave you two to talk. Please, take as long as you need and then let Grace know what you decide. She will coordinate the schedule and answer any questions you may have regarding the treatment. Please don’t hesitate to call if you want to speak with me directly - my door is always open.”  
  
And with that, Brian and I are alone. I’m still searching for something to say when he stands up and starts for the door.  
  
“You coming?” he asks without turning around.  
  
“What? Where?”  
  
“You heard the man. We’re outta here.”  
  
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I get up and grab his arm as he’s reaching for the handle.“Did _you_ hear him? We’re not going anywhere except out there to see if they can still start your treatments today! You promised you’d listen to him.”  
  
“No, _you_ promised you’d abide by my decision if I listened to him. I listened. Nothing’s changed.” He turns the doorknob and I fucking. lose. it.  
  
“Are you fucking kidding me? _Everything’s changed.”_ I yell. I’m sure everyone in the entire fucking perfectly pastel building can hear me, but I don’t care. “Don’t be a fool, Brian!”  
  
He just huffs out a breath and opens the door.  
  
“Gus wouldn’t want you to do this. If he knew...” It’s a shitty tactic, I know, but I’m desperate. He stops in mid-stride and very carefully closes the door again.  
  
“But he won’t,” he says, his jaw tight with barely controlled anger. “Gus will never know a fucking thing about this, will he?”  
  
"Maybe not." I swallow hard, fear and frustration trumping reason and compassion. I play the only other card I have. "Maybe he won’t, but Gus isn't the only child you have to think about now. What about our child, Brian? What about us?"  
  
“You don't want to go there,” he says, turning around slowly.  
  
“How can you be so fucking selfish?” Fuck. Even as I utter the words, I realize just how far over the line I’ve stepped.  
  
"You really think that?" His voice drops into that ominous zone that’s a hundred times more intimidating than my shouting, but it’s the naked fear in his eyes that knocks what’s left of the wind out of my sails.  
  
I sit back down heavily in the chair and shake my head, “No.” But it’s barely more than a whisper as I press my face into my hands. A moment later I feel a gentle squeeze on the back of my neck.  
  
“Don’t you get it? I need time, Justin.”  
  
I can’t look at him. I don’t want to see how much I just hurt him. Because I do get it. Finally.  
  
And if I hadn’t been half out of my mind for the past three days, I would have known all along. It could never have only been about a fucking baseball game.  
  
 _Liberty Air Sky Club Lounge, LaGuardia Airport, NYC – September 2008_  
  
 _It’s a thirty minute ride from the hotel to LaGuardia and I spend every second of it trying to figure out how to broach the subject of Brian’s treatment, or rather, his insane declaration that he wasn’t going to do it. Turns out, I could have saved myself the effort. We’re barely seated at a table in the Sky Club when Brian brings it up himself._  
  
 _“You know, you could have just stayed here and come home with me after the game instead.”_  
  
 _Since it seems to have become my default in the last thirty-six hours or so, my first reaction is what the fuck?  Actually, I suppose what the fuck *now* is probably more accurate. Before I can verbalize my oh-so-eloquent thoughts, our server appears, a fresh-faced young thing, dressed in the familiar red & white Liberty Air uniform and openly staring at Brian like he’s never seen anything like him before. I can relate. While Brian orders us two lattes (and eye-fucks the smitten server-boy, just because he can) I have another moment or two to consider what he just said. The game? What game... fuck. Gus’s birthday._  
  
 _Well, not exactly. His birthday was last month. I had a couple of new pieces debuting in a small, but important, show in Soho and I couldn’t make it to Toronto, but Brian did. Gus nearly deafened me over the phone when I called to wish him happy birthday. “JUSTIN!!! Guess what Dad got me! HOLY SHIT!!!” I could hear Brian laughing in the background and Lindsay fussing at Gus about his language, but the kid was practically euphoric and beyond caring. I heard Brian say something and then Gus again, “Oh, I mean Dad *and* you. Thank you SO MUCH! This is the BEST BIRTHDAY, EVER!”_  
  
 _My contribution to the best birthday ever consisted of a signed Thurman Munson rookie card and a new catcher’s mitt, but I knew that tucked inside that mitt was the reason for the newly-minted eight year old’s excitement. Brian had managed to get tickets to the Yankee’s final home game of the season. Not just tickets, seats behind the dugout, for the game that would also be the last one played in old Yankee Stadium, ever. Gus talked about it for three solid weeks during his visit this summer, and it was scheduled to take place next Sunday. Brian intended to be back in New York next weekend. Holy shit, indeed._  
  
 _Server-boy is gone and Brian is looking at me, his lips rolled firmly in between his teeth as he tries to determine if the penny has finally dropped. I never did have much of a poker face._  
  
 _“You can’t be serious, Brian.” It comes out louder than I expect and I get the eyebrow to go along with the patented Kinney lip-roll. I lower my voice, yet somehow it manages to get proportionally higher as the implication of this latest mindfuck sinks in. “Tell me you are not talking about refusing chemo because of a fucking baseball game.”_  
  
 _“Don’t be a drama-princess,” he pauses as server-boy comes back with our lattes, but this time his eyes never leave mine, “I never said I was refusing anything.”_  
  
 _I have to think about that one for a solid minute. Well, fuck me._  
  
 _* * *_  
  
And technically, he hadn't. Strictly speaking, when he'd told me he 'wasn't going to do it', he had been talking about starting the treatment immediately, as the doctors had advised. Strictly speaking, when he'd said it was best if I stayed here, he'd meant stay here because he'd be back next weekend anyway.  
  
Strictly speaking, I wanted to kick his smart ass _into_ next weekend.  
  
It didn't take me all that long to figure out that he had probably done it deliberately - given me something to chew on, a focus for my fears. At best, he’d let my misinterpretation stand. But as much as I hate being manipulated, it wasn't all that hard to forgive him this one.  
  
That didn’t mean I was prepared to just let him off the hook completely. As relieved as I was to realize he meant to have the chemo, even putting it off for a week was out of the question. We argued about it some before we boarded the plane, and I tried again after we were in the air, but he flatly refused to discuss it any further. I opted to let that slide until we got home, but by that time we were both exhausted and I was getting more pissed by the minute every time I thought about it. Nothing good could come of confronting him while I felt more like fucking strangling him than talking. Brian spent an hour on the phone with Cynthia and another with Gus, and I spent the entire evening online, making myself completely crazy.  
  
There was only a fraction of the information about this type of tumor out there compared with what there had been about his ball, but each article I did find was more terrifying than the one before it. By the time I shut down the computer I was pretty sure I was never going to let him out of my sight again. It was still fairly early by our standards, but he was already in bed waiting for me when I crawled in beside him. Lectures and recriminations could wait until morning - all I wanted was to put my arms around him and never fucking let go.  
  
He was awake, dressed in sweats and sitting on the terrace when I woke up. There was fresh coffee made so I filled my cup and grabbed one of the warm cinnamon rolls that had magically appeared on the counter overnight, taking a huge bite of the sugary treat as I stepped outside to join him. He had the Sunday Times spread out in front of him, which explained the cinnamon rolls. The local gas station-slash-general store sold the paper, and the woman who owned it also made the awesome pastries, but only on weekends; both were usually sold out by the ass-crack of dawn. I wonder if he slept at all.  
  
I set my coffee and roll down and leaned in close, nuzzling his neck from behind. His skin was warm and salty on my tongue, his hair damp and curling at the nape and I realized he’d been working out. He turned his face up to me for a long, lingering kiss and then pulled me around onto his lap. He grinned as he licked a stray bit of sticky cinnamon from my bottom lip, tugging gently at it with his teeth before dipping his tongue into my mouth again. His arms felt pumped as I ran my hands over them, his belly lean and flat against my hip, his thighs strong and firm beneath mine. His clean but musky scent filled my senses and suddenly I found myself fighting tears, overwhelmed by the thought of him so fit and healthy looking. It was all just so monumentally unfair.  
  
We continued kissing until the ache in my throat eased enough that I could speak without betraying myself and then I pushed back from him. I figured I still had twenty-four hours to make him listen to reason, and I intended to use every minute of them. Maybe one day I’ll learn my lesson about making plans for Brian Kinney.  
  
 _“You know you can’t do it, don’t you?” I say, slipping off his lap. He immediately reaches for my crotch, deliberately misinterpreting my words._  
  
 _“I beg to differ,” he says, poking his tongue out as he gives the bulge between my legs a gentle squeeze and tries to pull me back to him. “I’d say I do it rather well…”_  
  
 _I turn out of his reach, laughing softly, “Nobody will ever accuse Brian Kinney of not being able to get a man hard.” He gives me that enigmatic half-smile of his, then turns back to his newspaper in a blatant attempt to avoid where we both know this is going. I sit down in the chair facing him and wait. I sip my coffee and finish my sweet roll; five full minutes pass before I try again._  
  
 _“You can’t put off your treatment over a fucking baseball game. It’s crazy.”_  
  
 _He just keeps thumbing slowly through the pages, never takes his eyes off them in fact. I’d give him a thousand dollars if he could tell me even one thing that was written on any of them. “Actually, I can,” he says, turning another page._  
  
 _I promised myself I’d stay calm and rational, no matter what his argument -- nothing shuts Brian down faster than a drama-princess -- but how the fuck do you even argue with *that*? Jesus Christ. I snatch the paper out from under his hands and toss it on the ground. “Goddamnit, Brian, you can’t! Do you have a fucking death wish or something?”_  
  
 _So much for calm and rational._  
  
 _But he doesn’t even flinch, just leans back in his chair, watching in silence as two or three pages blow across the lawn and disappear into the trees. I pull my chair closer to his, reach for his hands, but he folds them under his arms like a petulant child. I take a deep breath, maybe two or three._  
  
 _“I’m sorry, that was a shitty thing to say.”_  
  
 _He only shrugs and watches some more of the newspaper fly away._  
  
 _“I made a promise,” he says, after a while. Oh, Brian._  
  
 _“Gus will understand. He’ll be disappointed, but he’ll understand.”_  
  
 _At that, he turns my way again. “Maybe I don’t want him to understand, Justin.” He shakes his head as though he can’t believe he has to explain this to me. “I spent half my fucking life ‘understanding’ the things my father did. It fucking sucks.”_  
  
 _Fuck me. He picks up his empty cup and walks back into the house with me following on his heels._  
  
 _“This is nothing like what happened with your dad,” I say, trailing behind him as moves around the kitchen. “You are nothing like him.” He’s ignoring me again, rinsing and refilling his cup. When he sets the pot back down, I move in until he has no choice but to look at me. “Gus loves you, and he knows you love him, Brian. You don’t need to fucking prove anything!”_  
  
 _He huffs out a bitter sounding laugh and picks up his coffee, leaning back against the counter as he blows across the top of the steaming liquid. “It’s not just Gus. In case you’ve forgotten, I have a business to think about, too. I can’t just drop everything.”_  
  
 _“Fuck the business.”_  
  
 _“Really. Fuck the business. I see.” He nods and starts walking again, down the hall to his office as he goes on, “Fuck Cynthia and Theodore, too? And Sid and Janelle and the two dozen other people whose livelihood depends on me? Fuck ’em all?”_  
  
 _“That is such bullshit! Ted and Cynthia can handle things for a while and you know it. They’ve done it before,” I counter._  
  
 _“Yes, they can. And they will,” he says, and I almost breathe a sigh of relief before he adds, “Starting next week.”_  
  
 _“This is *insane* Brian! You have to know that…”_  
  
 _“Enough, Justin,” he snaps, sitting down at his desk. “And you can quit fucking questioning my mental status every other time you open your mouth any time now.”_  
  
 _“But it IS crazy! For fuck’s sake, Brian...” Despite my best efforts I can hear my voice getting huskier by the second. I walk around behind the desk and turn him in his chair to face me. “There’s a reason they want you to start treatment right away. This...” Fuck I hate saying the word out loud. “This... cancer. It’s aggressive and it’s brutal, but it *is* curable. I read a lot about it last night. All those stats... they’re improving all the time. More and more people are liv... are beating it.” I feel the tears start to spill as I remember all the other things I read last night, but I can’t think about that now. “But you’ve got to fight, Brian. You have to.”_  
  
 _He doesn’t say anything for a minute, just reaches up and wipes away the moisture on my cheek. He cups my chin and rubs his thumb over my lips, then pulls me down onto his lap again. “I will,” he says softly, pressing his mouth to my ear, “I am. But you have to let me do it my way.”_  
  
 _He really breaks my fucking heart, you know? Because as much as this is killing me, I know that it’s a thousand times harder for him. But I can’t just pretend this is okay. I can’t just let him gamble with his fucking life._  
  
 _“Can we please at least talk to Dr. Keppler first? You already have the appointment tomorrow anyway, right?” I lean back, imploring him with everything I’ve got. If logic and reason won’t persuade him, I’m fully prepared to lie. “Please? Just listen to what he has to say and then I promise, I’ll support whatever you decide.”_  
  
Some fucking support. I’ve said some pretty shitty things to Brian in the past, but until this moment, I’ve never been ashamed to look him in the eye. “I didn’t mean that, Brian. I’m sorry,” I whisper, my face still buried in my hands. He cards his fingers into my hair and then tilts my head back until I’m looking up into his face.  
  
“Sorry’s bullshit,” he says, his lips curving into a sad little smile. “Besides, you’re not wrong.”  
  
“You’re the least selfish person I know. Whatever else might be true, that’s not. I should never have said it.”  
  
He scrubs a hand over his face, drawing in a long breath, his shoulders sagging as he lets it seep slowly out between his fingers. “I’m fucking scared, Justin.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“No, I mean I’m fucking _scared._ As in, I can hardly fucking breathe when I let myself think about what’s next.” He shakes his head, “I’m not afraid of the pain, you know. I can take pain. It’s not about puking all day long, or losing my fucking hair...” He starts pacing around the small office like a caged animal.  
  
“Brian, don’t,” I try to stop him, to tell him he doesn’t have to explain himself to me, but I’m not so sure he’s even talking to me anymore.  
  
“This chemo… The fucking list of side effects is two pages long. Permanent hearing damage, organ damage, nerve damage, memory problems. These things aren’t just possibilities, they’re _probabilities_.” He stops his pacing and turns to look at me again. “Do you understand that? Once I start down this road... even if the treatment works, there’s a good chance I will _never_ be the same person again. Gus is only eight fucking years old. What do you think he’s going to remember about me?”  
  
I don’t know what to say to that; even if I did, there’s a lump in my throat so big I couldn’t speak if I tried. All I can do is wait for him to go on, and he does.  
  
“But you know what scares me the most?" He closes his eyes, rolling his lips inward as if the thought causes him physical pain, and when he opens them again, they are dark with a despair I can't even imagine. "If it _doesn't_ work... it will all be for nothing. I won’t see Gus graduate college, or make it to the big leagues if that’s what he wants. I won’t get to see you get all gray-haired and paunchy.” He reaches down and strokes my hair, smiling wanly. “I probably won’t see our kid born " He drops into the chair beside me, the ache in his voice a palpable thing, "The motherfucking bitch of it is, I'm going to put us all through hell, and the odds are I'll die anyway."  
  
I want so badly to tell him he’s being a drama-queen, and that none of those things will happen, that fighting _right now_ is all that matters, but I can’t. Everything he’s saying is true, and it’s ripping my fucking heart out. I can’t even cry.  
  
“I need this, Justin. One week, and I swear to you, I’ll fight this fucking thing to the bitter end.”  
  
I’ve been in love with Brian since I was seventeen years old, but I don’t think I’ve ever really understood the true meaning of the word before now. If I could take his pain away by bearing it myself, I would do it in a heartbeat. But life doesn’t work that way, so I offer him the only thing I can.  
  
“Let’s go home.”  
  
* * *  
  
 _Britin - September, 2008_  
  
 _‘It’s only time.’_ I remember saying those words to him once. Maybe I even believed them. It’s easy to say that time doesn’t matter, until something comes along to remind you that it’s not just a concept, not an abstract theory or an open-ended promise. It’s real. It’s fleeting and it’s finite, and it matters. It matters very fucking much.  
  
Justin’s foray onto the information highway has given him just enough insight into what lies ahead to scare him shitless. There’s no doubt in my mind that if he knew everything the doctors at MSK told me, he would have tied me to the chair in Keppler’s office this morning and put the needle in my arm himself. If this chemo works and they’re able to operate, there is a chance I’ll survive this thing, whatever that may mean. If it doesn’t work, I maybe have six months, a year max, during which I’ll probably only wish I was dead. Right now, all I care about is the next seven days. It’s only time. Fucking bullshit.  
  
He’s sitting at my desk, his nose buried in the computer again and I can tell from the slightly nauseous expression on his face what he’s doing. Fuck that. I walk over and wrap my arms around him from behind, effectively forcing his hands away from the keyboard as I trap his arms at his side.  
  
“Briaaan! I’m trying to read,” he protests. He tries to squirm out of my embrace but it’s a half-hearted attempt at best when I lick a path up the side of his neck and suck at his earlobe.  
  
“School’s out for today, Mr. Taylor,” I breathe the words directly into his ear, circling the shell with my tongue. He lets out a soft groan as I flick at his lobe again and pull it into my teeth.  
  
“Uhhnnn...five more minutes. I just want to finish...”  
  
I cut him off with a sharp nip on his ear. I reach out and close the laptop with one hand while I run the other down his chest, slipping it inside the front of his jeans.  
  
“No more minutes.” I run my tongue along his jaw and lick the corner of his mouth. His head falls back against my shoulder -- he’s always been a slut for my tongue anywhere on his body -- and he lets out a sigh as I wrap my fingers around his warm cock. “I’ll finish for you.”  
  
His hands free again, he uses one to open the button on his fly and winds the other one up into my hair, pulling me around for a kiss. He runs his fingertips down my arm, sliding his fingers in on top of mine as our tongues meet and we stroke his growing erection together. He’s still semi-soft when I break the kiss and turn the chair round so he’s facing me. The disappointed little sound he makes at the loss of my hand is quickly replaced by a breathy moan when I spread his legs apart and drop to my knees between them.  
  
He lifts his hips so I can take off his jeans, but I shake my head no. I want him just like this. I open his pants and slide his underwear down just enough to free his cock. I see him bite his bottom lip, gripping the arms of the chair in anticipation as I lower my head and take him in all at once. I don’t move my head at all, just massage him with my tongue, swallowing around him again and again. Feeling him lengthen and grow in my mouth is unbelievably erotic; the contrast of his velvety soft skin and the rough denim brushing my cheeks only makes it hotter.  
  
He arches his back, tries to raise his hips, but I hold him firm and continue my slow, gentle torture.  When he’s hard as a rock and leaking on my tongue, I suction my mouth tightly around him and slowly pull up the length of his shaft. I feel him trembling with need as I reach the head and I release the pressure for just a fraction of a second before taking him to the root again, and he lets out a throaty cry.  
  
“God, Brian!”  
  
From the corner of my eye I see his fingers go white from clenching the chair so hard. I slide up his length again and repeat the pattern, over and over, just barely releasing the head each time before I dive back down. His hips are straining against my hands and he’s panting with the need to thrust. I bob my head once more, then pull back and slide my hands under his ass. He takes the cue and immediately drives his hips upward with a growl that comes all the way from his toes as he glides back in between my parted lips. His thrusts are frantic at first, shallow and needy, but he soon finds his rhythm, rolling his hips in long, smooth strokes.  
  
His balls are trapped in the confines of his pants, his concentration centered only on the hot, wet suction on his dick. I give them a firm squeeze through the denim and he breathes my name again. And then his hands are in my hair and he’s fucking whimpering, and I have to concentrate on not coming in my pants as he rocks in and out of my mouth. I know he’s close when his breath quickens and his thrusts begin to grow erratic again. I hook my fingers in the belt-loops on his jeans and wait for him to draw back one last time, then I hollow my cheeks and pull him up hard. His cock slams into the back of my throat and he comes with a sharp, surprised cry, shooting so hard it’s gone almost before I can taste it.  
  
I hold him there until I feel the last spurt on my tongue and he collapses back into the chair, gasping for breath.  
  
“Jesus...” His fingers are still tangled my hair as I move up and capture the word from his lips. I slip my tongue into his mouth and he sucks greedily, savoring his own taste. I kiss him until his breathing calms and his body is as limp as rag doll. He looks at me through heavy-lidded eyes, his mouth curving in a satisfied smile. “That... was...”  
  
“Aaaa-mazing,” I finish the thought for him, giving him one last, quick peck on the lips as I stand up again.  
  
He softly laughs his agreement and reaches for my fly. My erection is straining painfully against my jeans, but I shake my head, catching his hands, and pull him to his feet instead.  
  
“Come with me.”  
  
I drag him down the hall and through the kitchen, stopping to grab a bottle of wine from the fridge before I lead him out through the French doors and across the terrace to the pool. The late afternoon sun has already dipped below the tree-line, but the air is still warm and the light is soft and clear. I set the bottle of wine down on the deck and pull my shirt over my head, tossing it aside. My pants follow quickly and he watches me with hungry eyes as I slowly push my underwear down and kick them away, freeing my aching cock at last.  
  
His pants are still undone and they fall easily off his narrow hips as slip my hands inside them again, this time cupping his firm ass and pulling him to me. He stretches up for a kiss before pulling off his own shirt and making quick work of his underwear, and then he’s sucking eagerly on my tongue again in what I hope is a preview of things to come. I break the kiss and reach for the wine, taking a long drink right from the bottle before I offer it to him. He takes it and does the same, but instead of putting it down, he tips it back in my direction, holding it while I take another swallow. A little spills over my lips and he quickly catches the droplets with his tongue, then with an evil little grin, he tips the bottle again. I hiss out a breath as a thin stream of the cold liquid splashes on my skin, running in rivulets down my chest and into my pubes.  
  
He lowers his head and follows one of the trails, lapping the wine from my skin. His teeth graze a nipple and he pauses there for a minute, teasing the tiny nub to a stiff peak before moving on. He stops when he reaches the mark on my chest, concern filling his eyes as he looks up at me.  
  
“Enough of that,” I say quietly. He only hesitates for a moment, then he smiles softly and continues his downward journey. My abs ripple and twitch as his soft, warm tongue whispers over my skin, and my knees nearly buckle when his stubbly cheek brushes the shaft of my hard cock. He swirls his tongue around the base, lips tugging at the wiry curls, and I have to bite my lips to keep from groaning as he bypasses my dick completely, flattens his tongue, and licks a wide swath all the way back up the other side of my torso. As he kisses the hollow of my throat, I grip the back of his neck.  
  
“Fucking tease!” I wrap my other arm low around his waist, then bend my knees and gather him in, rutting my leaking cock against his belly. He’s still got the bottle of wine in one hand and he takes a mouthful, letting it wet his lips before he swallows and offers his mouth up to me. I trace the outline of his lips with my tongue. They’re swollen from kissing and chilled from the wine, and I taste each one slowly, deliberately, first the top, then the bottom, so ripe and full. As I shove my tongue in between them, he arches into me, pushing my erection harder against his flat stomach, and I groan into his mouth. God, I need to fuck him.  
  
But not yet.  
  
I take his free hand and lead him to the edge of the pool, guiding us both down the shallow steps. The salt-water system I had installed cost me a small fucking fortune, but it was worth every penny and the water is soft and warm as we wade in. I take the bottle from him and set it aside, then pull him to me, walking us in deeper as our mouths come together again. His arms wind around my neck and I slide my hands down his slim waist, then around to cup the cheeks of his ass. Lifting him is effortless in the shoulder-high water and he wraps his legs firmly around my waist.  
  
Sex in a swimming pool is highly over-rated if you ask me. Water is not lube and fucking underwater _hurts._ Unless you’re being paid to star in a porno flick, it’s just not worth it. On the other hand, making out in the water is fucking amazing. There is something incredibly sensual about feeling both weightless and strong at the same time, of wet skin on skin and the contrast of cool air and warm water surrounding you. He’s kissing my throat, my neck, my shoulders, and when our bodies press together and our cocks bump into each other under the water, my head falls back and I gasp a little, a shiver of pure ecstasy running up and down my spine. But I need more. Now.  
  
I swim us over to the side of the pool and pull one of the foam Baja lounges into the water. Prior experience has made us amazingly efficient at maneuvering into place, and in seconds, I’m on my back with my legs straddling the floating chair, and Justin is lying between them, his mouth poised over my throbbing dick. It’s just buoyant enough to keep my hips out of the water and to support Justin so he can do what he does best. His perfect, round ass is floating just beneath the surface, his arms are wrapped firmly around my thighs, and when he takes me into that hot, wet mouth of his, I throw my head back again, close my eyes, and try not to scream out his name. Jesus Christ! I can suck cock with the best of them, but Justin Taylor could make a grown man cry.  
  
He brings me to the edge quickly, then expertly pulls me back, mercilessly alternating long, slow draws from the base of my shaft to the tip, with feather-light kisses and strokes of his tongue. I feel his fingers on my shaft, his soft tongue wetting them as he slides them up and down its length, then teasing at my hole. He pushes one spit-soaked finger deep inside, all at once, as he wraps his lips around the head again. I try to thrust, to make him take it all, but he moves with me, sucking only on the tip while his finger strokes across my prostate. When I can’t take one more fucking second of his torture, I grab his face in my hands, tip it up until his eyes meet mine and grunt out a demand for release, right fucking now. He grins wickedly and lowers his head again, deep-throating me until I’m cursing his name and coming in waves that just about make me see stars.  
  
Before I can even catch my breath, he’s got his tongue in my mouth and his hands in my hair. We both know it won’t be long until I’m ready to fuck him and he seems determined to make sure it’s as soon as humanly possible. The water splashes over us as he grinds his ass in my lap; he sucks purposefully on my tongue, and reaches back with one hand to stroke my balls with the same, sensual rhythm. Soon enough we’re both hard again and he pushes back from me, wild-eyed and panting.  
  
“Fuck me, Brian. Fuck me, now.”  
  
Before I can even respond, he’s sliding off me and swimming for the steps. By the time I follow him out of the water he’s fumbling in his jeans pocket. When he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, he curses mildly and throws them aside, then reaches for mine instead. He practically whimpers when his search of my pockets also comes up empty.  
  
“Jesus Fucking Christ, Brian! We don’t have a condom out here? Shit!” He does everything but stamp his feet and I almost laugh, but I’m afraid he’d probably slap me or something. I step in close and take him by the arms.  
  
“Patience, young grasshopper,” I say, risking a smile.  
  
“Fuck patience! How the hell do *we* not have a fucking condom?!” he says, half laughing himself now. I lean down and kiss him, just a soft brush of my lips against his, and he looks up at me and just... smiles. I stare down at him, at his ocean blue eyes and smooth, pale skin. His hair is a little spiky from the water, his smile wide and open. In the half-light of early evening, he could easily pass for seventeen again. I’ll never stop wondering how I got so fucking lucky. “What?” he asks with a self-conscious little laugh, clearly puzzled by my apparent lack of distress over our ‘situation’.  
  
I’ve been thinking about this for days. Weeks. Fucking months. Long before any thoughts of cancer or chemo or fucking shitty prognoses, although I’m not so sure he’s going to believe that now. Doesn’t matter though, because I know it’s the truth. Fuck it. It’s the truth.  
  
“Maybe we don’t need one.”  
  
“Wh... what?” he repeats, looking more than a little dubious. Not surprising, really. We have met, after all.  
  
“I said, maybe we don’t need one.” I drape my arms over his shoulders and rest them there, breathing lasciviously in his ear. “After all, we’re already knocked up.”  
  
I thought I’d anticipated every possible reaction he might have when I finally told him I was ready for this. Joy, anticipation, maybe a little trepidation. We’re both clean  – getting tested was the first thing we had to do when we started the surrogacy process, and then again right before the procedure. He knows I would never put him at risk, but I’m sure he had his doubts that I could handle even three months of monogamy, let alone this. I expected a healthy dose of skepticism, so the flash of uncertainty in his eyes doesn’t offend me like it would him.  
  
But somehow I didn’t expect that he’d be looking at me like I just set fire to a box full of puppies.  
  
“You are fucking _unbelievable._ ”  
  
“It’s true, I am,” I say, taking one more shot at diffusing whatever the fuck this is, but he shrugs my arms off. I reach for him again. He just shakes his head, his eyes narrowing as he takes a step back. I have to say, of all the ways I imagined he might respond, open hostility never crossed my mind.  
  
“Justin...”  
  
He grabs his jeans up off the ground and pulls them on, turning his back on me. I can see his shoulders rise and fall from the effort he’s making at controlling himself. “Damn you, Brian,” he says, his voice small and tight. And then he’s gone.  
  
Well, fuck.  
  
* * *  
  
I find him sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace with his knees drawn up and his forehead resting on his folded arms. He doesn’t acknowledge the light touch of my hand on the back of his neck, but he doesn’t flinch or tell me to fuck off, either. I’ll take that as a win.  
  
His hair is dripping water down his bare back and I can see the fine goose bumps on his skin from the chill. I flip the switch on the fireplace and it roars instantly to life - another investment well worth the money. We may own a country manor, but pioneers we are not.  
  
I pour us each a generous shot of Beam from the antique brass bar cart that sits to one side of the hearth, a wedding gift from the Novotny-Bruckners that Mikey refused to take back after the aborted nuptials. He said I could call it a housewarming gift instead - as if that would make me want to vomit any less. Twat. But it actually suits this room (no doubt it was chosen by Ben) and it holds vast quantities of alcohol. I dealt.  
  
I take the drinks and sit down beside him on the thick carpet. I have to nudge his shoulder with the glass twice before he looks up. I’m sure he’s going to refuse it, but he takes it from me and tosses it back in one swallow, and then puts his head back down on his arms. Okay then.  
  
The quiet stretches out until I want to grab him and _make_ him say something. Anything. Brooding silence is my modus operandi, not his, and frankly, a silent Justin scares the shit out of me. I know too fucking well what happens when Justin stops talking. But this is his show, not mine. So I wait. After the bombshells I’ve dropped on him over the past few days, I owe him that much.  
  
I get up to refill our glasses and notice my little silver canister is also sitting on the cart. At least one thing is going my way today. I roll myself a nice, tight joint from my stash and light it before I sit down beside him again. I’m almost halfway through it when he finally speaks.  
  
“You shouldn’t be smoking,” he says, without looking up. I take another long hit off the joint, inhaling deeply and letting the buzz crawl over me before answering.  
  
“I’m afraid that’s at the bottom of a very long list of things that shouldn’t be, Sunshine.” I stretch out beside him and prop myself up on one arm. I finish both the joint and the rest of the Beam before he speaks again.  
  
“I’ve wanted this for so long, Brian,” he says. “But not like this.” He raises his head then, shaking it slowly, “It wasn’t fucking supposed to be like this.”  
  
“And what exactly do you think ‘this’ is?” I’m pretty sure I already know the answer, but I have to ask.  
  
“It’s...” He shakes his head again and huffs out a frustrated breath. “Never mind.”  
  
“Fuck _never mind_.” I sit up again. “Answer me, Justin.”  
  
“Damnit, Brian. I wanted it to be because I’m enough for you. When we finally... It was supposed to be because you only want me, not because...” He hesitates, then clamps his mouth closed. His righteous indignation seems to have abandoned him, doubt and insecurity rushing in to take its place. I know he doesn’t want to finish the sentence. As upset as he is, he doesn’t want to hurt me.  
  
“Because I’m sick? Because I’m afraid I’m going to die?” He flinches when I say the word, biting at his lower lip. I take his chin in my fingertips, turning his face toward me. “Is that it?”  
  
He just shrugs, a world of unhappiness in the simple gesture.  
  
“That’s part of it,” I say softly. His eyes narrow with pain and I’m suddenly reminded of another time I said those words to him. The first time. There was pain then, too. But then so much pleasure.  
  
 _‘Does it always hurt?’_  
  
 _‘A little.’_  
  
“It’s part of the reason I’m telling you now, but that’s just my fucked up luck.”  Another image flashes to mind, just one in a series of badly timed moves on my part when it comes to Justin. _‘As for the times when you’re not around, I wouldn’t particularly mind it if you were.’_ He was on a plane to Hollywood a week later. Nothing was really the same after that. “Timing has never really been on our side, you know?”  
  
He cocks his head at me, trying to make sense of what I’m saying, but he’s clearly at a loss and he looks away again. I take a deep breath and for a split second, imagine I can feel this fucking thing inside me, pressing on my heart. I’m sure that must be what this ache in my chest is. I turn him back, make him look at me.  
  
“I’m telling you now because next Monday morning they’re going to start pumping me full of poison. Once they do, we’re going to have to use a condom again until it’s over, because apparently the universe really does hate me. I’m telling you now because I know we’re both clean.” His eyebrows go up at that and I give him the same in return. “Unless there’s something you’d like to tell me?”  
  
He huffs out a self-conscious little laugh despite himself. “No.”  
  
He’s chewing on his bottom lip, and I reach up and brush my thumb across it, pulling it out from between his teeth. I lean and kiss it softly, and he makes this small sound in his throat that just about ends the conversation right there. But there are things he needs to hear. Things I need to say.  
  
“Listen to me.” It occurs to me that I’ve probably said more words to him in the last three days than I have in the last eight years put together, but he deserves to hear them. I take his face in my hands. “Are you listening?”  
  
He nods, his eyes locked on mine now. “I’m listening,” he whispers.  
  
“This not a checkmark on some fucking bucket list. I know the timing is for shit, but I can’t help that. I was always going to tell you after we got our last tests back, but the fucking world got in the way again.” I pause for just a second, not because I’m unsure, but because I find my own voice a little wrecked. I slide my hands around to the back of his neck and press my forehead to his. “I love you, Justin. You’re enough for me. I don’t want anyone else.”  
  
His eyes are wet, and he reaches up and pulls my hands from his neck, and there’s a moment where I’m really not sure how this is going to end. But then he squeezes them hard and brings them to his lips.  
  
“You really are unbelievable, you know,” he says, and his mouth curves into a smile that could probably be seen from space. I have a feeling that if I looked close enough into those shining blue eyes, I’d  probably see that mine could, too.  
  
He chokes out something that might be my name, and then suddenly, he’s everywhere at once. His hands are in my hair, his mouth is on mine. I can still taste myself on his tongue as it sweeps across my lips and then plunges inside. He pushes me backwards as he climbs on top of me. My breath whooshes out as my back hits the floor, but I barely notice since he breathes it right back into me, with no sign of concern whatsoever for the poor cancer patient. I wonder if he can feel me smile with his tongue this far down my throat?  
  
A hundred years later, he breaks away from my mouth, sliding his lips along my jaw, kissing my ear, my cheeks, my eyelids. His warm breath flows over my skin as he pulls back slightly, his fingers fumbling with the buttons on my fly as he kisses down my throat, along my shoulders. When he has my pants open, I lift my hips and let him pull them off, then he makes quick work of his own and kneels between my legs again. I feel a bead of moisture leak from the tip of my dick, leaving a faint trail where it rubs against him as he kisses his way back up my body. When he reaches my lips again, I wrap one arm around his shoulder and roll us over so he’s on his back beneath me. He opens his mouth as though he’s going to object, but I slip my tongue in before he can form the words.  
  
His smaller body molds perfectly into mine as I stretch myself out over the length of him. I kiss him deeply and he hooks one leg around my thighs, arching into me and grinding our cocks together. My hips begin to thrust of their own volition and I hear myself groaning into his mouth. Jesus. I’ve felt his bare cock against mine a hundred times, but this... knowing that I could just keep going, push inside his tight little ass just like this... fuck. I have to slow down or I’m going to come before I even get inside him.  
  
I raise myself up on my arms and let my mouth drift off his, sliding it down along his throat. I find his pulse point and suck the soft skin around it into my teeth. His heart is beating so wildly against my lips I actually lift my head to make sure he’s okay, only to find him staring back at me. His eyes are glittering, his tongue caught between his teeth and he’s panting softly. He’s so beautiful... so fucking young. I really have no right to ask him to take this chance with me. He had it right - I am a selfish bastard. I blame him. He’s the one who made me need him so fucking much.  
  
“Justin...” I have to ask. I have to know. “Are you sure? Is this really what you want?”  
  
“Brian?” He reaches up and takes my face in his hands, his eyes suddenly dark and serious, “I honestly never thought I’d say these words to you.” All I can do is hold my breath as he pulls me down until our mouths are nearly touching again. I can feel the heat of his smile even as he speaks. “You talk too fucking much.”  
  
* * *  
  
 _“I love you, Justin. You’re enough for me. I don’t want anyone else.”_  
  
I feel like I’m going to burst. Into flames. Into song. Into a million fucking pieces.  
  
I slide his hands off my neck, wrap them in mine - mostly because I need something to hold on to, something to keep me from flying apart altogether. Tears prick the backs of my eyes as the sheer enormity of what he’s saying sinks in. He didn’t just amend the sacred Kinney dogma this time, he tossed it right out the fucking window. For me. For us. And I know without a doubt, it’s the truth.  
  
I raise his hands to my lips, just hold them there for a long moment while I try to figure out how to apologize for being a selfish twat. But as I look into his eyes, as open and unguarded as I’ve ever seen them, I feel like maybe he already knows. Maybe,  just this once, the words don’t matter.  
  
“You really are unbelievable, you know?”  
  
And then he smiles. Really smiles. The kind I don’t think anyone else has ever seen but me. The kind that’s love and lust and promise and hope and home all at once. The kind I could live inside forever.  
  
“Brian...” The sound of his name mingles with the soft gasp he makes as my hands find the back of his head and I pull him hard up against my mouth. The taste of him still lingers on my tongue as he sucks it eagerly into his mouth. I straddle him, my fingers twisting in his hair as I push him back onto the carpet. His breath rushes out when his back hits the floor. I should probably feel bad about that, but all I feel is desire, pure and powerful. I kiss him deeper, steal his breath and feed him mine, until the blood is pounding in my ears and I’m dizzy with the need for more.  
  
My hands work the buttons on his jeans as my lips slide from his, tracing every curve of his face, feathering kisses over his eyes, his cheeks, along his jaw, down his throat. I sit back to open the last button, licking my lips in anticipation as he raises his hips and lets me pull his jeans off his long, beautiful legs. I shimmy out of my own and then drop back down between his knees, brushing my fingers lightly up the insides of his thighs.  
  
His legs spread a little further at my touch, his cock rigid and leaking little drops of pre-come on his stomach. I flatten my hands and run them up and down the long muscles of his thighs, reveling in the way his cock twitches and strains toward me each time my thumbs brush the nest of wiry curls at its base. I lower my head and let my warm breath play over his skin as I lap the droplets of moisture from his belly. I feel more than hear the guttural sounds he makes when the head of his cock brushes against me as I slowly kiss my way back up his body.  
  
Before I can even register his arm wrapping around me, I’m on my back again and his tongue is in my mouth. I feel his other arm slip under me, then his fingers digging into my skin as he wraps his hands over the tops of my shoulders. He stretches out over me, his long slender body covering mine completely, drawing me in until there isn’t a bit of me that isn’t touching him. He groans into my mouth, shuddering as I hook one leg around his and arch my back, bringing us somehow, impossibly closer. He rolls his hips, slowly, so slowly I’m not even sure he’s aware he’s doing it, and oh fuck me, he’s making these small circles with them and I feel each ripple of his abs against my cock. I gasp when his mouth slides off mine, trails down my throat. And then he’s sucking on my skin, teething it as his hot, silky, bare cock presses into mine, and oh fuck, oh jesus, please don’t stop,  please... _Please..._  
  
Brian raises his head slightly, just enough that I can see his eyes; there is the tiniest flicker of... something. Doubt? Regret? Please, God, no.  
  
“Justin...” Whatever it is, his voice is heavy, rough with it.  
  
“Are you sure? Is this really what you want?”  
  
Oh God. I truly don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I don’t know if I’ve ever loved him more.  
  
“Brian?” I take his face in my hands, “I honestly never thought I’d say these words to you.” I swear he’s holding his breath and it’s all I can do not to smile. I pull him down close and whisper the words against his lips. “You talk too fucking much.”  
  
He lets me kiss him but I feel the little sigh he makes as he pulls back again, this time raising himself up on his elbows.  
  
“I’m serious, Justin. You need to be sure. You have your whole fucking life ahead of you...”  
  
Shit. _Shit._  
  
“So do you, Brian, and don’t you fucking forget it.” I still have my hands on his face and I have to resist the urge to give his head a shake. “I’m sure, okay? I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire fucking life, except the fact that if you stop now, I am going to have to kill you. Now will you please, _please_ shut up and fuck me?”  
  
It takes a moment, but then his eyes go soft again and his mouth curves into that slow, half-smile of his.  
  
“Bossy little twat,” he mutters, as his mouth closes in on mine. I hold him off just long enough to make sure he hears my answer.  
  
"Don't you forget that, either."  
  
* * *  
  
TBC


End file.
